


A Sonnet for the Asking

by TheIndianWinter



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Manners and Country Houses, Not a retelling of Pride and Prejudice, Regency
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:22:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIndianWinter/pseuds/TheIndianWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"...you are so preoccupied with the idea of not being married, or ever falling in love that it is sure to happen, and quite without you realising.”</em><br/>Mr Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End House has vowed never to marry or fall in love - he lives the quiet, content life of a gentleman and is very happy with his situation, thank you very much.<br/>But of course, then one Mr Thorin Durin comes to Little Bagshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. of true minds

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should apologise for this somehow - it is after all, slightly ridiculous.  
> I just adore the aesthetic of anything set in the Regency period - the houses, the clothing, all of it.  
> But - alas! - it is such fun to write and there are plenty of tongue in cheek homages to the great Jane Austen in here too and the odd reference to Shakespeare - chapter titles come from Sonnet 116.  
> Anyway, enjoy!

**_of true minds_ **

Little Bagshot, nestled in the rolling green hills of Gloucestershire, was the kind of pleasant small town, with a thriving rural society, where the residents wondered at anyone ever wanting to live elsewhere. One such gentleman was Mr Bilbo Baggins, who had lived in Little Bagshot all his life, on his father’s estate atop the hill, Bag-End House.

He had lived there alone for many a year, showing no inclination to marry, much to the displeasure of many an admirer. Mr Baggins was well bred - the Bagginses a most respectable family and his mother, a Took, was one of the daughters of the late Earl of Westfarthing - and he was also handsome and, best of all, in possession of great fortune. Such men are usually in want of a partner, but not Baggins; some said it was Mr Baggins’ preference for his own sex and its conflict with his need to procure an heir.

Romantics said he had yet to find the right person.

Critics said he considered himself the offers he had received.

Then of course, he had taken in his widowed cousin Primula after her husband Drogo Baggins was lost at sea and even paid for the tuition of her young son.

Many who had once upon a time believed there to be an attachment between the two, speculated once more as to whether Bilbo would engage himself to his cousin, and there were mutterings as to the impropriety of it all, what with them living in the same house.

These rumours persisted, but were largely discredited as Bilbo, indignant at the comments of one Lobelia Bracegirdle proclaimed that he did indeed love Primula Baggins, but as a brother loves a sister, and as such, named her young son Frodo as his heir. This had caused much upset to the Sackville-Baggins branch of his family, who as it stood, had been in line to inherit Bag-End House, but had done much to satisfy the society gossips for a while. Bilbo had found some more respect for Lobelia, because, as unpleasant as she often was, she at least had the bravery to voice that which otherwise would have remained murmured over afternoon tea in the parlours of the town.

That such a minor thing could cause such uproar spoke volumes as to the quiet nature of life in Little Bagshot.

Which was why when newcomers came to town, all descended into chaos.

It started on a quiet Tuesday in June, just after Midsummer; Bilbo was sat reading under the shade of the old oak in his garden, Primula reclined against the trunk to his side with a book of her own.

“Mr Baggins! Mrs Baggins!” came a shout from across the garden. Asphodel Burrows scurried over to them, one hand holding onto her bonnet, the other hoisting her skirts. “I come bearing news!”

Bilbo, feeling as disinclined to move as he was, merely closed his book and watched as Primula stood and greeted her older sister with an embrace.

“Ered Luin Hall has been let at last!” she exclaimed without preamble.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow in interest, “Indeed? To whom?”

Ered Luin was a large estate to the west of the village that had fallen empty for many years after Old Tobold Hornblower had passed without an heir. After so long, many had given up on the hope that the property may be rented and bring some fresh faces to Little Bagshot society.

Asphodel shrugged, gently lowering herself onto their rug whilst her sister dropped unceremoniously onto the grass.

“Some gentleman from town; a Mr Fundinson, if I remember rightly.”

“I wonder if he knows quite what he is letting himself in for, moving here,” Primula chuckled. “If he was hoping for the quiet country life, he has picked the wrong town.”

“He’s unmarried too,” Asphodel added, “And rich as well. Maybe he’ll be handsome enough to tempt even you into matrimony, dear cousin.” She gave a teasing wink to Bilbo who narrowed his eyes back.

Primula gave a mock gasp of horror, “But sister, have you not heard? Bilbo’s heart yearns for me and me alone.”

Asphodel snorted ungraciously, “Have those rumours begun again?”

“One of the old Bolger maids, apparently she didn’t much like how Bilbo and I danced at the Assembly Rooms last week.”

“They never much like it when you and I dance,” Bilbo pointed out. “They say if we are so much brother and sister, then it is improper.”

“Anything we do is considered improper.”

“Why don’t you two just marry? It would quiet the gossips, secure Frodo’s inheritance and you’d be left well enough alone,” Asphodel suggested reasonably.

Primula puffed out a laugh, “Because our dear cousin is adamant that only the deepest, most passionate of loves will tempt him into matrimony.”

Asphodel raised her eyebrows at her cousin, her amusement increasing when she realised Bilbo had retreated behind his book, a slight blush colouring his cheeks.

“I never realised you were such a romantic cousin.”

“I’m not,” he grumbled.

“Oh he is,” Primula cried, “Do you not remember when we were children; he was the only one who would join in the weddings we held for dolls?”

“Oh yes!” her sister cried, “And you used to come up with the most detailed backstories of how each marriage came to be.”

Bilbo sighed, “Perhaps I am waiting, but I have no intention of leaving Little Bagshot and none here I should like to marry, so for now, at least, I shall lead the happy life of a bachelor.”

“Well perhaps this Mr Fundinson will change things,”said Asphodel with a sly smirk.

“I doubt it.”

* * *

Within the week, Bilbo had heard so much speculation as to the infamous Mr Fundinson that he was quite sick of the sound of him. He was unmarried, and in possession of a fortune much similar to Bilbo’s own of four-thousand a year. Such a thing excited all the young maids and ambitious mothers of Little Bagshot, for a single man of such wealth must be in want of a wife. He felt a sort of vindictive pleasure for the man, for all the annoyance the incessant gossip about him caused Bilbo, that once he arrived he would be bombarded by the handsomest young ladies and gentlemen, each after his wealth.

Bilbo himself, heir to Bag-End and his father’s great fortune, had once been subject to such torture, and though he would not wish it on many, he definitely did not find enough sympathy as he might have otherwise.

For that week, Bilbo and Primula were loath to make their usual social calls, and they were in fact, quite relieved when they called upon the Bracegirdles to find Mr Matthias away and his wife and sister of similar resentful sentiments for the new resident of Ered-Luin.   
“I think it most rude of him,” Lobelia stated primly, “He has caused such a stir, yet he has not the decency to even arrive yet. A true gentleman would have conducted his business much quicker to save us all the inconvenience.”

“Perhaps so,” Primula conceded, her dislike for Lobelia seeping into her tone, “But we cannot fault the man for arriving later than we would have hoped. We know nothing of his affairs, or his business.”

“Well I daresay we shall have much to say after his arrival,” she replied. “All the girls are bound to make such a spectacle of themselves.”

“Not you, Miss Bracegirdle?” Bilbo heard himself ask. “You will not entertain the thought of this Mr Fundinson as a suitor?”

Lobelia bristled, “Indeed I shall not!”

“My sister has enough fortune to marry as she wishes,” Daisy commented, looking up from where she had been fussing over her infant son, Hugo. “She needs not consider a man that no doubt half of Little Bagshot will be pursuing and can instead focus her attentions elsewhere.”

At the light flush that coloured Lobelia’s round cheeks, Primula gave a smirk that she quickly hid behind her teacup.

“Is there someone you would instead rather choose, Miss Bracegirdle?”

“No, not at all,” Lobelia contradicted hastily, “My sister simply means that I would simply prefer to remain here and not engage myself to a London gentleman.”

Bilbo was not convinced, and wondered at who it was that may have captured her attention so. Lobelia was quite the eligible young maiden; her brother, master of Hardbottle Lodge, had secured for her quite the sizeable dowry and she was most definitely handsome, despite her predilection for rather more garish fashions. It was only her abrasive manner that would fail to endear her to prospective suitors, that and her strong-mindedness. Whomsoever she had set her mind on, well, they could be considered both lucky, and one in need of sympathy. He was surprised he had not heard anything sooner, for it was unlike the young lady to give up once she had set her cap to something, so to speak - her former pursuit of Bilbo some six years prior had been proof enough of this.

“So I hear the elusive Mr Fundinson is to join us before the month is out,” Daisy mused aloud. Lobelia looked rather grateful for her sister-in-law’s timely change of subject. “Though it means he must hurry, for he has barely a week left.”

Mr Fundinson did indeed come to Little Bagshot the following week, with an agreeable countenance and a rumoured fifty servants. Bilbo, not hoping to form an acquaintance with the man for his own gain, did not presume to call on him just yet, rather he waited, not wanting to impose, knowing his turn would come soon enough.

He was, however, the head of the Baggins family since the passing of his father, so in this sense Bilbo felt as if he was doing the man an injustice.

His uncle, Isumbras Took, the Earl of Westfarthing, did give him some small comfort in this matter.

“You may be a Baggins, Bilbo my boy,” he said, in that deep calming voice that Bilbo had delighted in hearing narrate stories as a child, “But you are also a Took and I have already taken the liberty of calling on the man. I assured him that you would call in due time, so do not worry.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Bilbo replied, settling himself back into his favourite armchair in Tuckborough Manor’s impressive library. Though the Manor boasted several parlours, the Earl preferred to take tea, with relatives at least, under the great stone arches alongside his books.

The room had not been originally intended as a library, but as an impossibly grand ballroom; the ninth Earl, a man whom had great priorities, in Bilbo’s mind, had converted it into the room it was now, repurposing a different, though by no means small, gallery into the ballroom that played host to so many parties.

“It is no matter my boy. Now tell me, how fares that niece of mine? And my great-nephew, any news from him?”

“Primula is fine, as always,” said Bilbo with a smile, “And Frodo wrote just last week, telling us how excited he shall be to come home. His writing is already most accomplished given he has only completed his first year of schooling.”

Isumbras chuckled, “He sounds much like you - you were far too fast a learner as a child and much too inquisitive, like your mother.”

“Yes well the young lad has Took blood in him from his mother and the curiosity that comes with it.”

“You must bring him here, in the summer,” Isumbras offered in a manner that could not be refused, should Bilbo have wished to. He took a long draught from his tea cup before fixing Bilbo with a slightly more serious look.

“Now Bilbo my boy, what say you to a ball? I was thinking of holding one here, at Tuckborough in honour of Mr Fundinson - he assures me he has several friends coming up from London to stay with him for an indefinite amount of time.”

“More new faces,” Bilbo murmured, unable to quash the small wave of excitement he felt at the thought. He cleared his throat then nodded decisively, “I say a ball is a splendid idea.”

“Good, though don’t keep your fair cousin to yourself all night - I hear Mr Fundinson brings several gentlemen.”

At his uncle’s slight knowing smile, Bilbo’s cheeks coloured slightly, knowing that he had aimed that comment at his preference, as opposed to Primula’s. There was a warning in those twinkling eyes though and Bilbo sighed with mild wariness.

“So you heard those rumours again?”

“Just be wary Bilbo,” the Earl said kindly, “I had your aunt Mrs Bolger up here the other day, fretting over the damage it may do to yours, and your cousin’s reputation.”

“Oh Aunt Belba frets over most everything,” Bilbo muttered irritably. “Prim and I are always careful of such things.”

Isumbras nodded and that was the end of it. His father had raised his grandchildren to be too close for him to really believe the rumours surrounding the situation in Bag-End House.

They finished their tea with further idle conversation as to the goings on in Tuckborough Manor; apparently Bilbo’s eccentric uncle, Isembold, had taken it upon himself to start trying to learn the harp; Isumbras had indulged him, though had wondered how such a generally lovely instrument could produce such painful sounds and had therefore had given his brother a room in the largely unused East Wing for practice.

After five o’clock, Bilbo bade his uncle farewell and called for his horse, Myrtle.

“Before you go, Bilbo, will you come to call on Mr Fundinson with me on the morrow?”

“For afternoon tea?”

Isumbras nodded, “About three o’clock, come here and we will take the carriage up together.”

* * *

Ered Luin Hall was situated about five miles north of Little Bagshot. It was a huge, imposing structure, of the Carolean style; a symmetrical facade with many windows glinting bright in the sunlight, built of a light, sand-coloured stone. Bilbo had seen the Hall many a time on his walks in the surrounding parkland though he had never actually stepped foot inside. The Earl, having been a friend of Mr Hornblower, assured him that the home itself was just as grand inside.

Bilbo tugged lightly at his cravat  - his layers, even in their lighter summer fabrics, were a discomfort in the heat and so the cool air of the entrance hall was a welcome relief from the sun outside. They were greeted by a cheerful butler and escorted through a door in the wooden panelling, shoes clicking on the polished marble floor.

The parlour they were led to was airy, despite the rich teal of the walls, with great sash windows along the west wall. The room’s role occupant stood to greet them.

“Lord Westfarthing, how good to see you again.”

“Indeed it is, Mr Fundinson,” replied Isumbras jovially. “And may I present my nephew; Mr Bilbo Baggins.”

On cue, Bilbo gave a small bow and offered a small smile, “It’s a pleasure, Mr Fundinson.”

“I have heard much about you from your uncle.” The man grinned warmly and gestured to the table he had arisen from, “Come, let us take tea.”

Mr Balin Fundinson was a pleasant but rather plain gentleman of thirty-nine. He was a stout gentleman, of a similar height to Bilbo with thick auburn hair, threaded with the odd strand of silver. His cheerful disposition and great love of history made him an instant friend to Bilbo and the three talked the rest of the afternoon away.

Mr Fundinson, it turned out, had no great desire to marry, but had need to secure an heir. Tired of London society, he had come to Little Bagshot in the hope of finding a wife who was rather less frivolous than the young ladies among his acquaintance. His brother, he told them, was engaged to a young man, a younger son of a Baronet and thusly destined for the church - it was a love-match that he had not wished to deny.

He related the information to Primula who still gleaned no small amount of glee at the prospect that faced the newest resident.

“He shall have to dance every dance, and each with a different maid, poor fellow!”

“I feel more sympathy at the parade of matriarchs that will impose on him at Ered Luin.”

Primula laughed. “Oh but now he will not do for you for he needs a wife. And he sounded such a pleasant man as well.”

Bilbo fixed his cousin with a stern look, though there was no heat to it. “Well I’m sure he and I will be fine friends - he has the most impressive library. And anyway Prim, if I were to marry, who would be here to stop you coming into mischief?”

“I’m six and twenty Bilbo,” she scoffed, “I know longer get into mischief.”

“I can think of at least ten people who could say otherwise. Myself included.”

* * *

Two days hence, they received an invitation to the ball - to be held the first Friday in July - and that very morning he took Primula off to Goodchild and Diggle - the finest tailors in all of Westfarthing - insisting that such an occasion warranted new clothing.

Primula protested, as she always did when Bilbo tried to spend money on her, and it took him the entirety of their breakfast to persuade her.

Willifred Goodchild, as well as being inspired and unparalleled in his skill with needle and thread, was also a notorious gossip and Bilbo was partially going in a hope to glean knowledge on some of the happenings in the village that had been left to the wayside in the wake of Mr Fundinson’s arrival.

“I hear he shall bring no less than five ladies and eight gentlemen,” Mr Goodchild informed them as they perused the fabrics. Bilbo felt a little sorry for Mr Fundinson now; when his grandfather had made a slight joke pertaining to the attention his arrival had been receiving , he just looked uncomfortable.

“Well I heard he was to bring seven ladies and nine gentlemen,” his business partner, Thomas Diggle countered imperiously.

“Plenty of gentlemen,” Primula muttered in his ear, even adding in a salacious wink when Bilbo turned from the burgundy damask he had been admiring to glare at her.

In the end he commissioned a waistcoat in a vibrant emerald green and gold silk brocade and an accompanying jacket in a racing green velvet. Primula continued to be stubborn on the matter of him purchasing her anything but was swayed when she found the loveliest taffeta in a delicate duck-egg blue.

The ball came much quicker than Bilbo had anticipated, seeming to be upon them in an instant. The few trips he had taken into the village had done nothing to clear up the matter of how many guests would be accompanying Mr Fundinson and by that point, Bilbo had heard so much about it, he frankly could not care.

Dressed in his new garb he felt he cut quite the fine figure, as did the comely Primula, whose gown flattered her well. Together they made quite the handsome pair, he mused, as they stepped into their carriage. Primula was fairer than he, with curly auburn hair she how wore wrapped into an elegant chignon. She had the rich hazel eyes that Bilbo’s mother once had and what locally was called ‘the Took nose’, a delicate button nose that Bilbo himself possessed.

Bilbo watched out the window of the carriage as they approached Tuckborough Manor, yellow stone cast in a dramatic relief by the pinking light of evening. The estate had been the seat of the Earls of Westfarthing for some eleven generations and had remained largely unchanged in all that time - his grandfather had said it was a respect for history - the design of the place was a seamless mix of medieval gothic and renaissance classical and thusly seemed a representation of the period of the 16th Century in which it had been erected.

Bilbo had a great affection for the Manor and he found himself, as he quite often was wont to do, staring up at the facade in awe as they entered.

The dancing had not yet begun, for they were fashionably early, and Bilbo soon contented himself with conversing with Rorimac Brandybuck, the oldest of Primula’s six siblings, and his wife Menegilda on their son Saradoc - who was just of age - and his rather hopeless infatuation with Esmeralda Took.

“He just trips over his words around her, poor boy,” his cousin chuckled, “And he normally is quite the wit.”

Indeed, the young gentleman stood, flushed a bright pink, as the object of his affection chatted happily at his side.

“At least she herself seems to be quite set on him,” Menegilda smiled.

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed, “And you know how Took women are.”

He and Rorimac shared a laugh then at the thought of their respective mothers - sisters of the particularly Tookish kind of headstrong that was so revered in their family.

Primula approached them then, arm linked with her dear friend Rosamunda Took who, just the month before, had announced her engagement to one of their cousins, Odovacar Bolger. Both were of an easy disposition such that Bilbo was certain they had many years of happy marriage ahead of them.

“I believe Uncle shall announce the dance soon,” she informed them excitedly. Isumbras was in fact her great-uncle but ‘Uncle’ had become the preferred form of address for anyone descended of one of the Earl’s siblings.

It was then that Mr Fundinson entered, flanked by two taller gentleman; the one of the left was a great bear of a man and was more obvious in his displeasure as he glared at the polished floor of the ballroom. The other, however, drew Bilbo’s eye; he was not as tall, nor as broad as the first man, but he surveyed the room with such an air of pride and condescension that it made him seem much larger. He was much handsomer also, with a sharp nose, and eyes that, even at this distance, Bilbo could see were a piercing blue.

“The fellow on the left is Mr Fundinson’s younger brother, I believe, and a Colonel in the army,” Menegilda supplied for him and Primula. Bilbo chose not to wonder at the wheres and wherefores of how she acquired all her knowledge and instead just accept her usefulness at moments such as this.

“And the other gentleman?” Primula asked. “The handsome one?”

“That is Mr Fundinson’s oldest friend; a Mr Durin.”

Bilbo thought it best not to ask how she had come by this knowledge already - gossip in Little Bagshot had a habit of spreading thick and fast, often before the subject even realised they had in fact done something worthy of the town’s attention.

Isumbras did indeed announce the dance them; his son Fortinbras and his wife, Lalia taking the lead.

Bilbo offered his hand to young Rosamunda with a kind smile and she accepted graciously, placing her gloved palm in his own.

The first dance was a fast-paced one, exhilarating but not uncomfortable in the cooler summer evening, and Bilbo found himself laughing along with Rosamunda as they hopped and twirled across the floor. At one point, his eyes caught onto a pair of bright blue ones and he almost faltered before he let the steps carry him away once more.

Once it was over, he led Rosamunda back to where they had been standing. Menegilda, it seemed had managed to acquire further information even in the small amount of time.

“That Mr Durin, he has a large estate in Yorkshire and ten-thousand a year.”

Bilbo shot the man, who was currently talking with Mr Fundinson and his Uncle Isembras, a contemplative look.

“Indeed? And look - I think he has become all the more handsome for it,” he quipped, eliciting a giggle from his company.

Their uncle glanced up then and, catching Bilbo’s eye, waved him over. Bilbo took his leave of his cousins and, after offering his arm to Primula, began to make his way across the hall.

Both Mr Fundinson and Mr Durin seemed to be watching them; the former with his usual convivial air and the latter with an odd intensity.

“Ah there you two are,” Isumbras hailed them, voice loud as the music for the second dance started up.

“Mr Durin, may I present my nephew and niece, Mr Bilbo Baggins and Mrs Primula Baggins; Mr Baggins, Mrs Baggins, this is Mr Thorin Durin, an old friend of Mr Fundinson’s.” At Isumbras’ words, the intense look in those light blue eyes had faded into something cold and unreadable. Still, he inclined his head politely in greeting before excusing himself and stalking away. Mr Fundinson watched after his friend for a moment, a slight frown creasing his brow that he quickly smoothed away.

Primula squeezed his arm lightly and he turned to her with a frown. There was a barely perceptible flicker of her eyes towards Mr Fundinson and then Bilbo understood.

“Mr Fundinson, I believe I have not yet had the honour of presenting you to my cousin; Mrs Primula Baggins.”

“Indeed you have not,” he replied with a smile and turned to Primula, “It is a pleasure, Mrs Baggins.” He took her gloved hand and pressed a light kiss to her knuckles. “And if you are not otherwise engaged, would you dance the next with me?”

“I should like that, thank you,” Primula answered, removing her hand from Bilbo’s arm so she could be escorted to the floor, where the current dance was coming to a close.

“They make quite the fine pair,” Isumbras mused once they were out of earshot. Bilbo looked after them, Mr Fundinson laughing at something Primula had said.

“Perhaps,” he conceded, “But Prim is unlikely to marry again, at least not anytime soon.”

His uncle smiled sadly, “I forget sometimes, she so young, and to have already lost her husband.”

His older cousin, Adalgrim Took, approached him then to ask for a dance. Just further up the line of dancers, Adalgrim’s daughter Esmeralda was practically pulling Saradoc Brandybuck into place.

His cousin sighed, more to himself than anything, “I swear my Esme is going to propose to that boy before long.”

Bilbo snorted in agreement, “You know my mother proposed to my father.”

Adalgrim raised an eyebrow, “Did she indeed?”

“Yes I remember her telling me how each of my father’s attempts had him so tongue-twisted that in the end she gave up on waiting and asked him herself.”

“I could well imagine that of Aunt Belladonna,” he laughed.

After their dance, Bilbo collected a cup of punch and retreated to beside one of the large marble pillars, half concealing himself in the juncture between it and the wall.

“I’ve already told you; no,” came a deep unfamiliar voice, it’s rich timbre making Bilbo blink rapidly.

“You can’t just stand here in the corner brooding all night,” replied another, Bilbo recognising it as Mr Fundinson. Which would make the other Mr Durin.

“There is none I wish to dance with,” was the curt reply. “And I do not brood.”

“Well there must be someone amongst the acquaintance you’ve made tonight,” Mr Fundinson continued, a little imploringly, “What about Mr Baggins? - I hear he is considered quite the fine gentleman in these parts.”

“He looks more of a farmer to me,” Mr Durin dismissed snappishly. “Honestly, what appeal do you see in all these country folk my friend?”

Bilbo felt himself bristle and the man’s rudeness, forcing down an indignant protest. He was far superior to a mere grocer! Spying Asphodel stood against the adjacent wall, he instead strode out from his hiding place, and over towards her, directly before two other gentlemen.

With a glance back to them once he had reached his cousin, he noted with some annoyance that Mr Durin had the gall to not look in the slightest bit chagrined, whilst Mr Fundinson’s face bore a regretful grimace.

“What happened there?” she murmured to him.

“I believe I have just been insulted by Mr Durin,” remarked Bilbo in a clipped tone, “And I daresay he considers himself above our simple country manners.”

Asphodel snorted, “Well woe betide he who slights you dearest cousin.”


	2. not love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm overwhelmed by the response to this so far - thank you so much to all of you who read/kudos'd/bookmarked/commented. Updates will roughly be weekly for this, but I'm posting this one early in honour of the release of Poldark because we need all our Hobbit men in period dress! 
> 
> I've also managed to find my Bag-End House - it is Barnsley House in Gloucestershire - the photo can be found on the Sonnet page of my tumblr (theindianwinter). I have images of the other houses in my mind, so if anyone wishes to know, feel free to ask.
> 
> So without further ado, here is the next instalment, I hope you enjoy!

**_not love_ **

Lobelia Bracegirdle was not by any means Bilbo Baggins’ favourite person in Little Bagshot. She was ostentatious and rude and generally thought herself above everyone else. Which was partly why he had invited her to tea - her taking umbrage to Mr Durin’s comment was the very thing he needed to fuel his righteous anger.

“He slighted you?” she questioned loudly, her fingers gripping the china handle of her tea cup tightly. “To your face?”

“Not to my face,” Bilbo corrected.

“Yes, he was hiding behind a pillar,” Asphodel chimed in, her smirk hidden by the her teacup.

“I was not hiding!” he protested, “I just happened to overhear their conversation from where I was stood.”

“Behind a pillar,” Primula added in flatly. Bilbo just glared at her.

It was the Monday following the ball, so naturally, their conversation had turned to the subject of any gossip from the party at Tuckborough.

“I find it hard to understand why he considers himself so above you,” Lobelia muttered snootily, “Or indeed the rest of us.”

“I think his fortune may have a little to do with it,” Primula reasoned.

“Manners maketh man. And I don’t think he could have acted in a less gentlemanlike manner had he called Bilbo a farmhand to his face.” The last part she near spat out, venom darkening her tone. Bilbo was quite sure she took great offense to one she had once pursued being likened to a common farmer.

“Well we shall not stoop to his level,” Asphodel stated firmly. Bilbo almost winced as he recognised the stern, mothering tone she used on her nieces and nephews. “Instead we shall hold a party for them - for them all.”

“It has been quite some time since Bag-End has played host to any kind of large gathering.”

“Mr Baggins, you can’t be considering this,” Lobelia protested.

“I have been looking for an excuse to have a party for quite some time now,” Bilbo replied, “And being overly kind to Mr Durin seems as good a reason as any.”

“Kill them with kindness,” Asphodel laughed. “I did say that arrogant man would regret his words to you.”

“Mr Fundinson told me how his friend dislikes dancing,” said Primula, “Perhaps we should make there is at least some of the amusement. We may not have a grand ballroom like Tuckborough, but there’s space enough.”

“It will have to be after the dance at the Assembly Rooms,” said Lobelia. “Otherwise it will happen too close to the ball. What a shame it must be for Mr Durin, that we hold so many dances here.”

Their conversation soon passed onto the subject of the upcoming dance as opposed to the one they had just had previous, speculating, as always, on who would dance with whom. One of Bilbo’s cousins was, according to Asphodel, who in turn had heard it from Menegilda, intending to court Miss Gilly Brownlock.

“I suspect we will hear of an engagement soon, even taking into account the usual Baggins reticence in such matters.”

The rest of the week Primula and Bilbo engaged in nothing but minor social calls for young Frodo was coming home from school and his cousin was quite beside herself at times in excitement. She busied herself with sewing him a new handkerchief and bothering their poor cook Bell Gamgee to ensure they had all the ingredients to prepare all of Frodo’s favourite meals and sweets.

Bilbo himself rode up to Gloucester in order buy several new books and toys for his nephew and to frame the watercolour Primula had completed the week before of himself, sat reading beneath the old oak tree in the garden. It being one of her best works and he insisted on setting it on a particular empty wall in his parlour he had been meaning to fill for quite some time.

Thursday could not come soon enough, and when it arrived, he and Primula passed the morning restless with anticipation and unable to focus on any one activity as they sat in the parlour. At the familiar sound of hooves on gravel, they dashed out into the courtyard, grinning broadly as the carriage came to a stop. Frodo hopped out into the ready embrace of his mother and she littered his face with kisses. His tiny nose wrinkled at the attention until she released. Bilbo received a tight hug about his legs before he bent down to scoop the boy up, letting out a breath at the exertion.

“You’ve grown my lad.”

“And I’ve lost my tooth,” the boy declared proudly, sticking his tongue through the gap in his teeth.

“Well I hope that means you’re still able to eat cake,” Primula teased.

Frodo’s bright blue eyes lit up, “There’s cake? Can I have some?”

“Once we’ve had luncheon,” Bilbo answered and set him on the floor once more, ruffling his mop of dark curls as he led him inside.

For the rest of the afternoon, Frodo played in the bright sunshine with the Gamgee’s youngest son, Samwise, the two resuming their friendship as if their months apart had never occurred. Sam’s father, Hamfast Gamgee was one of the tenant farmers on Bilbo’s estate and despite the differences in their situation, Bilbo got along with him very well.

The following day Bilbo decided to take Frodo over to Brandy Hall to see his cousin Merimac who would have just returned from school also. The walk was a good three miles but the day was a little milder so it was not a chore, but pleasant.

As they were passing through the town centre, he saw Mr Fundinson across the square and he hailed him,

“Mr Fundinson, good day!”

Quickly, he smoothed away the frown that twitched at his brow as he saw Mr Fundinson was not alone.

“And Mr Durin, to you too,” he added, with a notably smaller amount of enthusiasm.

“Ah Mr Baggins, hello to you,” Mr Fundinson greeted. Mr Durin just inclined his head. Mr Fundinson smiled kindly down at Frodo, “And this must be the young Master Baggins I heard so much about.”

“Indeed,” Bilbo turned and smiled down at his nephew. “Frodo this is Mr Fundinson and Mr Durin, they moved into Ered Luin House.”

Frodo offered them a shyer version of his usual toothy grin. “Nice to meet you.”

“By the by, Mr Fundinson, you are all invited to a small gathering at Bag-End, Mrs Baggins will be sending the invitations.”

“Thank you,” Mr Fundinson replied kindly, “How is your cousin?”

Bilbo did not miss the slight frown that clouded Mr Durin’s brow.

“She is in good health, thank you Mr Fundinson. Excited to have this one back,” he added, with a ruffle to Frodo’s hair that made the boy squawk in protest.

The boy tugged at his sleeve then, “Uncle, are we still going to see Uncle Rory and Auntie Menny?”

“Yes, and we’re in plenty of time for luncheon so don’t you worry,” he said, punctuating his statement with a light tweak to Frodo’s nose.

“Uncle?” came the distinct voice of Mr Durin who was frowning fully. “Forgive me, but I was under the impression he was yours and Mrs Baggins’ son.”

“He is Mrs Baggins’ son, but not mine. Frodo’s late father was my cousin Drogo Baggins, Primula was his wife, and I took them both in after his passing,” Bilbo explained. He needed to speak to Primula - if it emerged that someone had actually mistaken them for married, even if it was an honest mistake, the town gossips would have a field day.

“So there is not, in fact, a Mrs Bilbo Baggins?” Mr Durin asked, his voice a little tight.

“No,” said Bilbo firmly, “Nor is there ever likely to be.” He muttered the last bit before he could help himself and froze, finding his eyes locked with those piercing blue ones, their expression unreadable.

“Well,” Mr Fundinson began with a cough, “We had best let you get going. It was nice seeing you, Mr Baggins.”

“Good day, Mr Fundinson, Mr Durin,” he said, barely able to nod his head in farewell before he was pulled away by Frodo.

* * *

“Prim,” Bilbo began resolutely. It was suppertime, and with Frodo already in bed, Bilbo and his cousin had elected to sit out on the veranda, watching the setting sun as they shared a pot of tea and Bilbo smoked a pipe.

“Yes?”

“We need to be more careful.”

“What on earth do you mean?” she asked, frowning.

“When I encountered Mr Fundinson and Mr Durin on our walk today, I introduced them to Frodo.”

“That’s nice,” she replied airily, then raised her eyebrow in a manner that questioned where Bilbo was going with the conversation.

“Mr Durin seemed to be under the impression that we were married.”

Primula snorted loudly, ignoring Bilbo’s nonplussed expression.

“Sorry Bilbo, but you know how ridiculous I find the prospect of us bound in matrimony.”

“I’m flattered,” he answered flatly.

“I will check our behaviour though,” she continued, thankfully a little more serious now, “Perhaps if we do not dance at the Assembly Rooms?”

Bilbo wondered at that - knowing the people of Little Bagshot, if they changed their behaviour too much, it would be picked up on and decided that they were attempting to conceal something - something like a secret engagement. Instead, Bilbo resolved that he should feign a strain of some kind and swear off dancing for the whole evening.

As much as Bilbo adored dancing, he did not falter in his decision and so remained upon the sidelines, watching the merriment with a relaxed smile and fending off prospective partners with an apologetic comment about his knee. This worked for the most part and Bilbo did not feel too unkind in his refusals for there were plenty of partners to go around. The Old Oak Inn, known locally as ‘the Party Tree’ was a large set of rooms in the centre of town and indeed, it seemed as if all of Little Bagshot had come down that night, dressed in a vibrant mix of colours that swelled and twirled with the dancing throng.

Bilbo himself had worn his favourite burgundy velvet coat - it was getting a little worn now and would soon need to be relegated from his dress clothes, but since he was not intending to dance tonight, he revelled in the comfort the warm, familiar fabric provided.

“Come Mr Baggins you must dance! You cannot remain in the corner all evening.”

Bilbo withheld a sigh as he was accosted by his Uncle Isembold, who, that night, it seemed, had taken it upon himself to see to it that everyone danced at least one turn.

“Thank you, no, Mr Took,” he answered, voice a little overly-polite. “I am not of a mind to dance this night.”

“Nonsense!” Isembold cried, “Look there is Mr Durin, he is not presently engaged.” Bilbo winced as his uncle called the tall gentleman over, his face fixed in its usual unimpressed expression. Bilbo remembered the man was rather disinclined towards the amusement. “Come Mr Durin, say you will dance with Mr Baggins here.”

To Bilbo’s surprise, Mr Durin bowed his head and offered out his hand, “Mr Baggins.”

“Please, you must excuse me,” said Bilbo, “I injured my knee on my walk today, so I do not dance tonight.”

“Well then we must get you to a seat,” the man said, frowning down at Bilbo. His uncle had already disappeared off, no doubt to search out his next victim.

He took the proffered arm and let Mr Durin lead him into the other room, where there were seats and tables. On his way out, he caught eyes with Primula, who was in the midst of a dance with Adalgrim, and scowled at her inquisitive look.

Only once he had taken the seat Mr Durin had found for him, did he realise how warm the man’s arm had been and he stared down at his hand in confusion.

“I hope you are comfortable.”

Bilbo looked up sharply, his hand quickly curling into a fist, and nodded.

“Yes, I thank you.”

Mr Durin turned to go, but before he could, they were approached by Mr Fundinson’s younger brother, looking every inch the soldier in his formal uniform of a rich crimson.

He glanced at Bilbo and offered a curt nod before looking to Mr Durin expectantly.

“Mr Baggins, may I present Colonel Dwalin Fundinson; Colonel, Mr Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End.”

The Colonel inclined his head in greeting, evidently more like his friend than his brother, in being of few words. Then, however, he offered a small quirk of his lips, that on anyone else Bilbo may have called a teasing smile, to his friend and said, “So this is Mr Baggins.”

“Your uncle came to call, he spoke of you,” Mr Durin said quickly, by way of an explanation, before he excused himself and disappeared into the crowd.

Colonel Fundinson took a seat adjacent to Bilbo, looking at him appraisingly.

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably as he searched for a topic of conversation. “I hear you are engaged to be married?”

The Colonel did smile then and Bilbo almost fell off his chair at the shock of seeing that expression as anything but intimidatingly stoic.

“Indeed, to a Mr Ryson; he is a vicar in a parish in Surrey. Least suitable job for him in my opinion - he was a horror when we were children.”

Bilbo laughed a little at that, “Our local vicar is one of my mother’s brothers Isembard - he and my mother were the most mischievous of the Earl’s children - not exactly priesthood material either.”

“I swear there are too many Tooks here to keep track of,” the Colonel muttered, not unkindly.

“Well my mother had eight brothers and two sisters - most of whom have grandchildren of their own now, and that’s just the immediate line.”

He let out a low whistle, “I do not quite fancy the idea of ten siblings - one was just enough for me.”

Bilbo gave an understanding nod, “I am in fact an only child, so sometimes the sheer size of my extended family can overwhelm me.”

“They seem very amiable. Though it is a shame the same cannot be said for everyone here.”

Bilbo caught the pointed look Colonel Fundinson gave across the room towards Lobelia who kept glancing over at the pair, her expression mildly affronted.

“Ah, never mind Miss Bracegirdle. She has just taken offence to something your friend said.”

He let out something akin to a groan then, his expression a mixture of annoyed and apologetic.

“Yes, I was told about that; has my friend not apologised yet?”

“Not as such, no.”

“He does regret what he said,” Colonel Fundinson said seriously and Bilbo was quite sure he was telling the truth. Mr Durin’s attentiveness tonight spoke of an apology where his words did not. “He just does converse with strangers as well as he should like.”

“I am not sure how well I should fare; for none here are a stranger to me, and we each are all so well acquainted,” said Bilbo and he started in earnest to wonder what it must be like, to come into a place such as Little Bagshot; where no-one new ever really came, and no-one born there ever really left. There was an order to things here, a manner in which all things were done; who married whom, who lived where. That was why Mr Fundinson’s coming had been such a sensation because it was the first real change that had happened in a long time.

“Little Bagshot was brought to our attention by a gentleman in London - Sir Grey - are you acquainted with him at all?”

“Sir Gandalf Grey?”

It had been a long while since he had heard that name aloud, or indeed seen the tall grey haired man to whom it belonged.

The Colonel nodded.

“He was a dear friend of my mother’s,” Bilbo informed him. “I have not seen him since her death, but he did so love to visit here.”

Bilbo gave a happy sigh as he recalled many a Midsummer’s Eve as a child spent in the gardens at Tuckborough, watching the fireworks Sir Grey brought every year.

“Have you ever seen his fireworks?”

The Colonel raised a thick eyebrow, “His fireworks? No I have not.”

“He is famous for them, around these parts. He would do a display each year at Tuckborough for Midsummer.”

“Such a shame for us to have missed it,” said the Colonel politely.

“There hasn’t been fireworks since the last Earl - my grandfather - died some ten years ago. There is still a party up at the Manor though.”

Bilbo repressed the sombre mood that threatened to rise up alongside the mention of the death of the Earl - such an event was embroiled in the terrible winter that had swept through Little Bagshot, which also claimed the life of his late father.

No indeed, such a happy occasion did not call for such thoughts.

With a forced smile, he rose from his seat.

“If you will excuse me, Colonel Fundinson,” said he, “I should like to go get myself a drink.”

The Colonel bowed his head in farewell and Bilbo set off towards the large table that held the punchbowl. Along the way, he was swooped down upon by Lobelia.

“Mr Baggins,” she hissed, “Why were you talking to Mr Durin and the Colonel?”

It amused Bilbo somewhat that her distaste for the man had spread to one of his friends, but not the other, he supposed that it was because Mr Fundinson was more sociable than his brother, given the open secret of his need to find a wife.

“The Colonel is actually very amiable Miss Bracegirdle, and not inclined to insult our ways,” he began, his tone one of light scolding, “As for Mr Durin, I fear he may simply need time to acquaint himself to our way of life. He does appear to wish to make amends.”

Lobelia huffed, but left him alone, and disappeared in the direction of his cousin Otho.

Bilbo managed to spend the remainder of the dance without engaging in anything but light conversation with various people. Without dancing, it was considerably less entertaining and without that pleasant kind of exhaustion afterwards he did not fall asleep so easily and instead lay on his back, mulling over the events of the evening.

Mr Durin had indeed been rather gentlemanly - and his arm had been very warm.

* * *

“If the weather holds out, we will be able to host the party in the garden,” Primula mused, her eyes moving to the garden outside, bathed in the soft morning sunlight.

Bilbo gave a hum of agreement, though his eyes were more focused on the letter he held in his left hand. Though, as he had expressed to Colonel Fundinson some days previous, he had not seen Sir Grey in around seven years, he did still partake in a rather irregular correspondence with the man. This letter was, so far, much similar to the others previous, enquiries after Bilbo and his family and anecdotes from Sir Grey’s own colourful life. He also mentioned having recommended Little Bagshot, and Ered Luin House in particular, to a friend and wondered whether Bilbo had yet had chance to become properly acquainted with the Fundinsons as of yet.

“Bilbo?” Primula prompted when he did not respond to her in satisfactory manner.

“I’m sure that will be lovely,” he said distractedly, catching the side of his mouth with the jam-covered scone and leaving a streak of pink there.

His cousin made a vague noise of irritation and went back to her breakfast and fussing over Frodo who had somehow managed to get smear of jam in his eyebrow.

“Sir Grey is coming to visit,” Bilbo announced, his gaze still locked onto the paper before him.

Primula raised an eyebrow at him, only speaking when she realised her cousin was not paying her any notice, “Indeed?”

Young Frodo perked up in his seat, having heard many a tale of the man’s fireworks.

“Yes,” Bilbo said, placing down his scone to trace the words on the paper, “He writes: ‘ _It has recently come to my attention that I have not been paying you the courtesy you deserve. I miss Little Bagshot ever so acutely and as such, would presume to impose upon your kindness, should such a thing be agreeable. I am currently in residence at Rivendell Abbey, home of my dear friend Elrond Peredhel, the Duke of Suffolk, so please send any further correspondence there. Unless I hear otherwise, I shall presume to arrive three weeks this Wednesday hence, and you can expect me at four o’clock, prompt. I am most looking forward to seeing you again my dear boy._ ’”

Primula let out an impressed breath, “The Duke of Suffolk? I suppose I should not have expected any less of the great Sir Gandalf.”

“We could put him in the Blue Room,” Bilbo mused, setting aside the letter to take a sip from his teacup.

“Does he say for how long he intends to stay?”

“No, he does not,” he replied with a quick glance back to the letter. “I shall write to him at once and ask.” He paused for a moment to finish off his tea before adding, “However, when he used to come for an unspecified amount of time, he usually would not leave until he had coerced someone in going on an ‘adventure’ with him. Most likely a Took. Even more likely my mother.”

Primula raised an eyebrow, a amused gleam in her eye, “I did not know your mother went away unchaperoned.”

“She was wild, even for a Took,” said Bilbo fondly, “That and I think everyone in Little Bagshot knows Sir Grey to be harmless, if a little eccentric.”

“Will you be like Sir Grey when you get older Uncle?” Frodo piped up from where he had been engrossed in his food. “Will you not marry and instead travel around the country with your stories?”

“I’m afraid not my boy,” Bilbo chuckled, “I have no intention of leaving Little Bagshot.”

Frodo’s little brow pulled into a confused frown, “But what if you should fall in love with a man who lives far away?”

Primula laughed heartily, partly at her son’s concern and partly at Bilbo’s shocked expression.   
“There are not many from afar who come here,” she comforted him, “So you need not fear someone coming to steal your Uncle away.”

Frodo nodded, placated, then fixed a serious gaze upon each of them.

“When I am older,” he said determinedly, “I am going to marry Sam.”

Bilbo grinned, “A fine match indeed.”

Frodo’s instant smile quickly quashed the negative thoughts that sprung up in his mind; Bilbo had no objections to such a thing personally, but the class difference would be a cause for disapproval, coupled with the fact Frodo was Bilbo’s sole heir and as such would be expected to marry to produce heirs. Yet, Bilbo mused, he had still managed to find an heir, wishing only for a marriage of true minds and, for him, such a union would not bear him any sons. No, Frodo could marry whomever he wished, just as Bilbo’s father had told him, and the boy was lucky if he had indeed found someone already, at the age of six.

That afternoon Bilbo sat in his study, writing a reply to Sir Grey, as he watched Frodo and Sam playing in the garden with a smile on his face. Primula, as she would be for each day for the rest of the week, was busy completing tasks for the party, planning the menu, sending invitations and things of that ilk.

Bilbo, by contrast, passed the time in a much more idle manner. Most afternoons he spent in the garden, reading in the shade of the old oak. On Wednesday, he took Frodo and Sam up to Brandy Hall to spend the day with Merimac, who, despite his protests that at ten he was much too old for such games, led a pirate raid on the sweets shelf of the pantry. Three young privateers collapsed at his side, a book in the hands of Merimac, and so Bilbo spent the afternoon in the rose garden at Brandy Hall, reading to them some of Gulliver’s Travels.

Sooner than Bilbo realised, the party at Bag-End was upon them. Primula, it seemed, had taken it upon herself to host a rather more informal affair - a sort of buffet - in the garden, something she stated Bilbo had approved of, yet he had no recollection of doing so. As it was, he thought a party in the garden was rather a splendid idea, for the garden was at its loveliest in summer and the day had been bright and cloudless, as was the evening thus far.

He stood upon the veranda, engaging in light conversation with his various guests as they entered, Primula, ever the dutiful hostess, at his side, He was just informing his Uncle Isumbras of Sir Grey’s forthcoming arrival when his butler, Hayward, announced the arrival of the Fundinsons and Mr Durin. The Earl promised to ask him more of it before moving aside so his nephew could greet his latest guests.

Mr Fundinson greeted them with his usual warmth and his brother was friendly in that gruff manner of his. Even Mr Durin wore a milder version of his habitual stern expression as he greeted Bilbo.

“Mr Baggins, I thank you for your hospitality.”

“We thank you for joining us,” he answered politely, “Please, help yourself to the wine, eat your fill.”

Mr Durin inclined his head in thanks, then again to Primula in greeting, though he did not offer her any words before he moved to join the Colonel and they both headed for the long table that was laden with food.

Bilbo did not miss the significant look Primula shot him over Mr Fundinson’s shoulder. She would get some strange look in her eye each time their neighbour’s friend was mentioned in passing conversation - ever since he had told her of what ever happened at the dance.

The day following the dance, she had come to him in his study, a figurative bee in her bonnet.

“I meant to speak to you last night,” she had begun in that dangerous tone that usually foreshadowed a good scolding. “But why did I have Lobelia telling me off last night because, Heaven forbid, you decided to consort with Mr Durin?”

Bilbo sighed heavily, “She seems to have taken greater offence than I to Mr Durin.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache that usually came with trying to fathom the workings of the young lady’s mind. “Honestly, he behaved perfectly well - he helped me to a seat when I told him I could dance due to my...injury.”

Primula was silent, looking at him in utter incredulity. Then, finally, she asked, “He asked you to dance?”

Bilbo had given her a mild glare, one he hoped warned her mind off pursuing any particular trains of thought. Mr Durin was very handsome, so much was apparent to even the most indifferent observer, but the very notion! The man was just making amends for his previous poor conduct. “He was practically forced into it by Uncle Isembold - you know how he is.”

Primula gave a hum of agreement that did nothing to ease his mind before she left him well enough alone.

Bilbo had avoided bringing it up any further; content that for now, at least, she seemed to have the sense to let the matter be.

The look she was giving him now, however, gave him no such comfort.

All their guests had arrived and, left to his musings, he had somehow wandered into a conversation between Asphodel and Misters Fundinson and Durin, with the former two being the main contributors.

“I did not realise you were Mrs Baggins’ sister,” Mr Fundinson was saying.

“Yes, she is the youngest of us all,” said Asphodel.

“And, pray tell, how many is ‘all’?”

“Seven,” Bilbo answered.

“Seven?” Mr Fundinson asked. “So I take it the propensity for large families in these parts is not just limited to the Tooks?”

He looked surprised when both Bilbo and Asphodel chuckled heartily.

“Mrs Burrows’ mother was my mother’s sister.”

“So a Took,” concluded Mr Durin, drawing a slight look of surprise from Asphodel at his, albeit minor, contribution.

“We are everywhere,” said Asphodel flippantly.

“The family connections here do seem a little… confusing,” Mr Fundinson tried diplomatically.

“Nobody really likes to leave,” Bilbo explained with a shrug, “So the extensive intermarrying is largely us making to with what we have.”

Asphodel snorted ungraciously, “Not that that applies to you, cousin?”

“Yes, well you know the offers I’ve had,” he replied dryly. “It is a wonder I am still amenable to the idea at all.”

“You are to remain a bachelor then?” inquired Mr Fundinson with a surprised tilt to his brow.

“If I can help it.”

“You would not marry Mrs Baggins then?” Mr Durin asked, his tone derisive. “Even though you sit here and you make house together?”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes, feeling his temper begin to simmer, “What are you implying, sir?”

“It is rather improper, do you not think, Mr Baggins?”

“Perhaps so,” he managed to concede before his anger boiled over, and he continued sharply, “But I love Primula like a sister and she brings a light to this house that had been extinguished when my mother passed and I like to think that I provide some small form of comfort to her as she continues to grieve her late husband. So yes, it may be improper, but it does us more good than not and I thank you not to pass such judgements on myself or my family!”

He finished his tirade taking in a deep breath, a little too incensed to be embarrassed by the extra looks he had drawn towards them. Excusing himself quickly, he moved away to go fix himself another cup of wine. The imprudence of the man! He had even defended him to Lobelia. Well, he certainly regretted his insistence that the man was more gentlemanlike than their first encounter would imply. Evidently, he had been quite right the first time - the man was insufferable!

After the party had ended, Bilbo sat with Primula on the veranda, each wearing a blanket to ward off the coolness that darkness brought as they sipped upon a nightcap. Primula was drinking hers much slower, occasionally raising her cup to her lips in between staring at the amber liquid pensively. The silence between them was reflective, but as comfortable as all their silences were wont to be.

“That was quite the spectacle earlier,” said Primula slowly, after a while.

Bilbo ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the once combed curls as he heaved a sigh.

“Sorry,” he began, “But you know I will not allow for someone to besmirch your reputation thus.”

His cousin gave him a long suffering glance, “And what of your own?”

“I have the inherent respectability of being a Baggins,” he smirked teasingly, “Whereas you, my dear Prim, are half-Brandybuck, half-Took.”

She gave him a brief, aghast look and swatted his arm in jest. Bilbo chuckled quietly to himself and she joined in after a moment before sobering.

“Still Bilbo, I will not invite ridicule upon us - what if you found someone but he would not choose you because of me?”

Bilbo took her hand that lay upon the table, stroking the back of it gently in an attempt to dissuade her worry. “If that were the case, then he would not be a man whom I could love.”

She answered his wry smile with one of her own and the two lapsed into silence once more. Together, they remained thus, watching the deep night sky, only retiring when the paler blues of the early summer dawn began to creep upon the horizon.

 


	3. alteration finds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, here is the next chapter!   
> Thanks once again to everyone who commented/kudos'd/bookmarked!  
> For those who are curious, I post my headcanons for the various houses over on the [story tag](http://theindianwinter.tumblr.com/tagged/regency/) on my Tumblr, so far, I have a Bag-End and a Ered Luin and I shall add in my Tuckborough before the next chapter is published.   
> Next chapter will be up in a week or so.  
> I hope you enjoy!

**_alteration finds_ **

Asphodel had, of course, come to reproach him for his outburst at tea the following afternoon. Apparently, the whole town had been aflutter with the gossip. Bilbo bore the scolding with good grace, well aware of his breach in propriety, but knowing deep down that Asphodel herself would have jumped to defend her sister had Bilbo not done so first. As for being the centre of the gossip, Bilbo could not care, for he had come to accept in recent years that there was more to life than one’s sense of respectability.

Still, despite his general acceptance of the whole situation, he was immensely glad that Mr Durin was absent when he called on Mr Fundinson for tea. The Colonel, who had doubtless heard Bilbo’s tirade from the other side of the garden, seemed amused by his presence, and he joined them for tea, even though it was not in his normal manner to do so.

“Mr Baggins, what would you say delights the people in Little Bagshot the most?” asked Mr Fundinson, about a half hour into his visit.

“Other than talking on the affairs of others?” he quipped with an ironic quirk to his lips, eliciting a chuckle from the two brothers, “I would say we take pleasure in nothing so much as a dance.”

“Excellent.”

“Are you to host a ball, Mr Fundinson?” said Bilbo with an excited smile.

“Indeed I am, and before your uncle’s garden party.”

“Why that is only a few weeks away!” Bilbo exclaimed.

His grandfather had begun the tradition before Bilbo’s birth - so many of his Took relatives had birthdays in the summer months that he had started hosting one impossibly lavish party in August to celebrate them all, though each received their gifts on their birthday proper.

When Bilbo informed the Fundinsons of this, they laughed, and the Colonel declared the late Earl a very wise man indeed.

“For there are so many of you Tooks, I should pale at the idea of parties each for half of you!”

“I quite agree with you,” Bilbo nodded, “Plus I dislike the idea of such an expense on my behalf. It is only with great reluctance I am allowed to celebrate my own alongside all the summer babes - I was born just the week before Michaelmas, you see.”

Their conversation swiftly moved onto the subject of the ball and the Colonel, having finished his first cup of tea, excused himself before he was poured another. It was with a smile on his face that Bilbo exited Ered Luin around an hour later, Myrtle awaiting him at the base of the stone steps, kneading the gravel impatiently with her hooves. As he descended, he was halted by a hand on his arm and he glanced back to see Mr Fundinson looking down on him with an expression far more serious and apologetic that it had been moments before.

“I must assure you, Mr Baggins,” he began imploringly, “My friend does regret his behaviour.”

“If that be the case, sir, let him make amends with me in person.”

With a nod that made his farewell seem more abrupt than was intended, he mounted his mare and then gave one last dip of his hat before trotting out down the hedge-lined avenue.

Once he had passed through the wrought iron gates, he gave a sigh and cleared all thoughts of Mr Durin from his mind - for it would not do to waste further anger upon the man - and instead let himself to be claimed once more by the anticipation of a ball.

When he arrived back, Asphodel and Amaranth, alongside Menegilda were there to take tea with their sister. All were excited by the prospect when he told them of it - including Amaranth whose enjoyment in such things had lessened greatly ever since her sweetheart had had her life claimed by that awful, terrible winter.

News travelled fast, it appeared, though Bilbo supposed he should no longer be surprised by his cousin’s incredible ability to acquire and spread information at the speed at which she did. Menegilda worked exceptionally fast in this instance, for when he made the trip into town the following morning, he could hear talk of the ball everywhere he went. The small smile he allowed himself was a mixture of his excitement and gladness - glad was he that the ball had left his outburst all but forgotten - and he went about his business exchanging pleasantries with all whose paths he crossed.

When he returned to Bag-End, his butler informed him, as he handed off his hat and gloves to a footman, that he had a gentleman awaiting him in the parlour.

“Indeed?”

“Yes sir,” Hayward said, "He called about twenty minutes ago - I offered to take a message but he insisted he would wait.”

His butler led him down the hallway towards the smaller parlour that Bilbo rarely used in summer - the walls were encased in a darker wood that, even in the brightness of summer, somehow repelled the light.

“Who is the gentleman?”

“A Mr Durin sir.”

As Hayward replied, Bilbo had already crossed the threshold and, upon spotting the agitated man beside the fireplace, froze in place.

“Mr Durin,” he greeted, his tone carefully even, “Good day.”

“Mr Baggins, I am sorry to impose like this.”

“No matter,” he replied, “Shall I call for tea?” he asked, already half-turned towards the door where Hayward remained.

“No,” the other cut in, quite abruptly, then, upon catching himself, added, “That will not be necessary, thank you.”

Bilbo gave a nod and a smile to dismiss Hayward and then turned to his guest expectantly.

“So how may I be of service to you, sir?” he prompted when the man did not speak, moving to settle himself comfortably in the crimson armchair.

“I came to apologise for my rude conduct towards you.”

Bilbo inclined his head to acknowledge that he was listening, but remained tight-lipped; something that, to his pleasure made the man start to pace before the hearth.

“I have never done well when surrounded by such a large number not of my acquaintance, and though that is a feeble excuse, I hope it explains my conduct somewhat.”

Mr Durin halted his pacing, swallowing thickly before continuing.

“I did not mean to insult you when I spoke of you and Mrs Baggins, I was merely expressing my surprise that such an arrangement was so accepting in this town, as so far I find society here to be far more scrutinising than even in London.”

Bilbo bowed his head to concede that one - the Little Bagshot gossips were certainly a force to be reckoned with - though he doubted they could ever compared to those such as the Lady Patronesses of Almack’s.

“I should perhaps apologise for my rather churlish response also,” he said after a moment, “My cousin and I have been subject to vicious rumour and it means I can react rather harshly on the subject.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Mr Durin replied with a tentative smile.

“However,” Bilbo continued, his lips twisting into a teasing smirk, “A farmer?”

Mr Durin coughed and Bilbo was amused to note the slightest of blushes that coloured the man’s high cheeks.

“Ah...yes,” said he, a little awkwardly, “I was in poor spirits that night. I do not consider you a farmer.”

“That is good to hear.”

Bilbo stood abruptly when the man remained at the fireplace, head bowed.

“Come now, Mr Durin, I am not one to hold a grudge,” he proffered his hand. “All is forgiven.”

Almost cautiously, Mr Durin took his outstretched hand, but he shook it firmly. His palm was warm, but with a few callouses that were most unusual for a gentleman. “I am glad to hear that - you are such a good friend of Fundinson that I would have felt quite awful were we to become ever better strangers. I do desire that one day we may be friends.”

“If that be the case then you must join your friend when he next comes for tea - after the ball, I believe.”

“I should like that,” Mr Durin smiled. He picked up his top hat and gloves from a dark wood table and inclined his head to Bilbo. “However, I must take my leave of you, I am expected at the Manor with the Fundinsons this afternoon. I thank you for your time.”

“Thank you for coming,” Bilbo replied kindly, accompanying the man down the hallway. Once they had bade each other farewell, Bilbo lingered upon the threshold, watching the tall figure cross the courtyard. He nodded politely to Prim as he passed her and she responded in kind, fixing a curious look on Bilbo as she drew closer.

“If I am not mistaken, that was Mr Durin who left just now.”

“It was,” Biblo stated simply, as he knew such a short answer would annoy her. “How was everything up at Brandy Hall?”

Prim, however, ignored his question and ploughed on in her questioning, much as he thought she would. “As in Mr Durin who, last I heard you speak of him, was a horrendous cad?”

“The one and the same,” Bilbo said with a smile, enjoying the growing frustration of his cousin as he continued to be withholding.

“And why, pray tell, was he here? And why has he not left you cursing the day he was born?”

“I did not dislike him quite so much,” Bilbo said, a little admonishingly, “And he called to apologise for his conduct in person.”

Prim blinked, “How very decent of him. It was a good apology I take it?”

“It was most sincere,” Bilbo replied tactfully - despite the man not being present, he felt no need to go into detail of the man’s obvious apprehension, Mr Durin struck him as a rather proud fellow after all. “And he shall join Mr Fundinson when next he comes to tea.”

Primula nodded though she did not look particularly overjoyed at the fact.

“Brandy Hall is much the same as ever. I left Frodo and Sam there with young Merimac under the watchful eye of Saradoc. Who, you shall be unsurprised to learn, is yet to propose to Esmeralda.”

“I do hope it happens soon. It has been much too long since we last had a family wedding.”

“You just enjoy raising eyebrows by dancing with every Tom, Dick and Harry. And do not forget - Rosamunda will be married from Budgeford in the spring.”

“Weddings are the only time when people don’t assume you have an ulterior motive when dancing,” he retorted primly. “I can dance and flirt to my heart’s content with nary a worry for being mistaken for a suitor. But I shall look forward to our cousin’s for I do love a spring wedding.”

“I am quite certain you will marry one day - for you are so preoccupied with the idea of not being married, or ever falling in love that it is sure to happen, and quite without you realising.”

Bilbo laughed, “Well if that somehow happens my dear Prim, then I promise to ride through Little Bagshot in nought but my bedclothes and declare you the Queen of all Creation.”

She snorted ungraciously, “I shall hold you to that.”

* * *

August brought with it increasingly humid weather - the heat oppressive and uncomfortable and Bilbo more frequently found himself hiding out in the cool wine cellars with a book, in the armchair he had had carried down the steps. Primula scolded him whenever she discovered him hunched up with a candle when outdoors there was daylight. He would be forced outside to watch a slightly subdued Frodo and Sam  - who still had far more energy than he - and would sprawl under the minor reprieve granted by the large shady oak. The whole town was seemingly consumed by the same lethargy, so very few actually paid any social calls.

With a lot less care than he would usually put into such an event, Bilbo selected his clothes for the ball - the black coat he chose was not his smartest, but the material was thinner and therefore a greater comfort even though he was intending on doing much dancing. He paired it with a waistcoat that was a bright cornflower blue that drew out the gold in his eyes. Overall, he thought he looked rather well, though not his best.

Primula joined him in the hallway, a vision in her peach satin ballgown, a pearl hair pin ornamenting her hair. Frodo was spending the night at Brandy Hall with his cousin, though Bilbo was not entirely sure how much sleep the two young boys would get.

The carriage ride to Ered Luin was a short one and it seemed barely had they pulled from the grounds of Bag-End that they were standing upon the steps to the large house, Mr Fundinson greeting them with a welcoming grin.

“Good evening, Mr Baggins, Mrs Baggins, welcome to Ered Luin, I trust you are in good health?”

“Very well, thank you sir,” Bilbo smiled, “And yourself?”

“Quite well, thank you. Now Mrs Baggins, could I claim your hand for the first dance? I’m afraid I am much in demand this evening and I should like one dance where I am not under pressure to be as charming as ever.”

“It would be a pleasure,” Primula replied, “And you can be as dull as you wish.”

Mr Fundinson laughed at that, “That is a great relief to hear.”

Bilbo and Primula moved through the guests, exchanging greeting and smiles as they headed through to the ballroom proper. As they stepped in, Lobelia immediately appeared before them, an uncharacteristically careful look about her.

“Mr Baggins, would you do me the honour of the first dance? I would ask something of you?”

“Of course Miss Bracegirdle,” he replied, not worrying about her intentions for she had long since given him up.

She nodded, satisfied, and excused herself to go in search of her brother.

Colonel Fundinson was stood with Mr Durin and four unfamiliar figures, three of whom were male. He caught Bilbo’s eye and waved him over and so the two cousins approached. The Colonel had an easiness about his serious face that Bilbo had not seen before and even Mr Durin did not appear quite so stoic as he usually did in public. He supposed that these must be some of their friends from either London or the North.

“Mr Baggins, Mrs Baggins,” Mr Durin greeted them, “How pleasant to see you both here.”

“It is a pleasure to be here, Mr Durin, Colonel,” Primula answered politely.

“May I present my betrothed, Mr Nori Ryson,” the Colonel said, with an incredible affection as he looked to the man stood at his side. Mr Ryson was not a particularly short man, but his lithe figure seemed so much smaller compared to the Colonel. He had a riot of auburn hair and a sly gleam in his clear eyes that to Bilbo was so very Tookish in it’s nature.

“Nori, may I present Mr Bilbo Baggins and his cousin Mrs Primula Baggins; their uncle is the Earl of Westfarthing,” the Colonel introduced and Bilbo did not miss the pointed look he gave to his friend as he placed special emphasis upon the word cousin and he withheld a smirk.

Mr Durin returned the glance with an unimpressed stare.

“It is an honour to meet you at last, Mr Ryson,” said Bilbo.

Mr Ryson gave a gasp of feigned horror, “I dread to think on what awful falsehoods he will have said of me in my absence.”

Bilbo grinned, “He has been nothing but kind, I assure you.”

“That is what I am worried about.”

The Colonel gave his husband-to-be a look of fond exasperation before looking to his other three friends.

“May I also present Mr Bombur Urwin, his wife, Mrs Harriet Urwin and his older brother, Mr Bofur Urwin.”

Mr Bombur Urwin was a rotund man with a kindly, ruddy complexion and impressive red whiskers. His wife too, was pleasantly plump, with the soft but firm bearing of a mother and glorious flaxen hair. His brother, Mr Bofur Urwin, had a grin beneath his dark moustache and deep brown eyes that glowed with a similar unknown mirth. Bilbo was quite hopeful he would prove to have a sharp wit.

Barely had they begun a proper conversation - on the subject of the antics of the Urwins’ large brood of children - when the dancing was announced and Mr Fundinson joined them to claim his dance with Primula.

“If you would do me honour, Mr Baggins?” the older Mr Urwin asked, holding out a large gloved hand.

“I thank you, but I am afraid I have already been claimed for the first,” said Bilbo. As if on cue, Lobelia appeared in the corner of his eye, approaching him with a determined stride. “But perhaps the second?”

Mr Urwin smiled in acceptance. Bilbo excused himself and went to join Lobelia.

“I heard of Mr Durin’s apology,” she said with a small note of displeasure as he reached her. “I am glad he has seen fit to do well by you at last.”

“I think it was rather a misunderstanding.”

She gave a small hum, the meaning of which he did not bother to interpret and they did not speak again until she was facing him.

“What is it you wished to speak to me about?” he asked as he bowed with the first bars of music.

“Your cousin,” she said plainly as they stepped together. “Mr Sackville-Baggins.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, but they moved to being side by side, so he asked, “What of him?”

“What do you know of his situation?”

If Bilbo were to attempt to label the previously unseen emotion that crossed his dance partner’s face at that moment, he would could it nervousness, but that seemed impossible because Miss Lobelia Bracegirdle was nothing if not assured.

“I could not say, for I do not see him all that often, but I can try and ascertain if he is open to advances, if you so desire.”

“You will delicate, yes?”

“Miss Bracegirdle, I will be the soul of discretion,” said Bilbo, looking at her earnestly as they turned. He did not miss her grateful smile before the dance pulled them away from each other once more. After the dance was done, he led her over to her brother, bidding both Matthias and Daisy a greeting before moving away in search of his next partner, Mr Urwin.

He soon happened upon the man, responding to his easy smile in kind, and allowing himself to be born back to the dance floor.

“How do you find Gloucestershire compared to London?” he enquired conversationally, coming to face Mr Urwin.

“Well I have scarcely been here two days, but I daresay it is very pleasant, though a little quieter than Mr Fundinson’s letters had led me to believe.”

“Oh no, we are quite the lively folk,” Bilbo assured him, “It is the weather you see, no one has much energy to anything as strenuous as the walk to call upon neighbours.”

“I find that most odd, myself - I am so accustomed to being so close yet the closest neighbour here is some half a mile away!”

Bilbo nodded, “I find quite the opposite - I cannot imagine not having a good walk to and from a visit - it gives one opportunity to clear one’s head.”

“Or to mentally prepare oneself?”

He responded with a loud snort of laughter that earned him a hard look from his Aunt Belba who was stood just off to the side.

“So you have heard of the Tooks then?”

“The Earl’s family? I have heard plenty of them!” Mr Urwin exclaimed. “You are one of them, are you not?”

“Indeed - the current Earl is my late mother’s brother.”

“Tell me,” Mr Urwin asked in a stage whisper, “Is the Manor truly as grand as they say?”

“Grander even,” Bilbo replied, mimicking the conspiratory tone. “I fear Mr Fundinson may have done it an injustice. He is jealous you see - for Tuckborough is the most beautiful house in the county and he lives in only the third.”

“And what, pray tell, is the second?”

“Why Bag-End House, of course,” Bilbo puffed up proudly, eliciting a loud bark of laughter from Mr Urwin.

They lapsed into silence then, for the dance was a particularly energetic one, and that, coupled with the hot air that had managed to seep it’s way into the ballroom, was starting to make him feel rather tired. When the music came to an end, he resisted the strong urge to collapse against the nearest wall and instead moved away from the ballroom to go in search of a drink.

Upon reaching the threshold, his progress was stopped as he encountered Mr Durin whose lips rose into that vague approximation of a smile.

“Mr Baggins,” he addressed Bilbo, “Would you do me the honour of the next dance?”

Bilbo blinked, momentarily stunned at the offer. So that time at the Assembly Rooms had not been a one time occasion then. He wondered at why he should like the idea so well as he did.

“I, er… yes,” he replied dazedly, voice scratching with his parched throat. He offered up an apologetic smile, “Actually, how about the one after? I fear I am in great need of a drink.”

Mr Durin nodded, smile widening almost imperceptibly, the he offered his arm to Bilbo. “Then allow me to accompany you.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo said earnestly, resting his gloved hand upon the other’s forearm. “It is this heat, it is hardly conducive to dancing.”

“Indeed it is not,” Mr Durin agreed. There was a moment’s pause where Bilbo thought no more was to be said - Mr Durin was not known as a conversationalist after all - but then he added, “I prefer to spend my summers hidden away somewhere cool, like the cellars.”

“Myself too!” Bilbo beamed, glad he was not the only one disinclined to suffer in the sunlight. “I even had an armchair carried down to the wine cellar for that very purpose. Whenever my cousin finds me she forces me outside.”

“My sister is much the same,” Mr Durin responded as he handed Bilbo a cup filled with the cool fruit punch. “Says I am wasting good sunlight.”

“Goodness, yes,” Bilbo sighed, “I make the most of good weather, but not when it is as unbearable as it is now.”

“I think the weather shall break soon,” he stated, “But what shall be done if it rains for this infamous picnic?”

“Then we hold the picnic indoors,” he explained. Bilbo took another sip from his cup before continuing, “In the Long Gallery - we all sit upon cushions and blankets, keep it as a proper picnic should be.”

“That sounds delightful,” Mr Durin offered Bilbo his arm once more so they could return to the ballroom. “I think I might prefer it to an outdoor picnic.”

“Either way it is bound to be an experience. You know,” he mused, “I find it hard to imagine what it would be like, experiencing the Took picnic having never been to one before - I have been going to them all my life.”

“Well, I shall be sure not to create any expectations -  I am learning that to do so in Little Bagshot is a terrible folly, for so far it has only greatly exceeded the ones I came here with.”

Bilbo returned Mr Durin’s kind smile, taking his place opposite him in the line of dancers.

“I shall be sure to let all know - after all, we do so hate to be boring.”

Mr Durin’s deep chuckle was lost to the first strains of music and they bowed to one another.

Afterwards, Bilbo would wonder why a man who claimed to dislike dancing as much as Mr Durin did came to be quite so accomplished a dancer. However during the dancing, he was lost to the music and kept smiling whenever his eyes snagged on bright blue ones (which was far more often than he would admit to even himself).

When he later danced a second with Mr Durin, he was quite certain there was going to be talk of it the following day. However, he did not care, because he was enjoying himself - Mr Durin was much better company than he ever would have anticipated.

Primula of course had questions for him the instant they were in their carriage and returning to Bag-End but he felt he did commendably well in fending them off, declaring the man not to be so terrible as first appeared.

After all, he was glad to have been able to forge a friendship from an acquaintance that just a week beforehand had seemed so sour.


	4. to remove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the response so far dears - it means a lot!  
> It's the last week of the semester this week, and I have _so_ much work. These past few months have really been tough - I've had lots of throat problems which is not good when you study languages!  
>  Anyway, this means that next week there won't be an update, but I will do my best to get one out the week afterwards. I do have a completed one-shot that needs a bit of editing that I'll be posting before then.  
> For those of you that are interested, Tuckborough Manor can be found [here](http://theindianwinter.tumblr.com/post/114442412377/allthingseurope-montacute-house-england-by)  
> Until next time then!   
> I hope you enjoy it!

_**to remove** _

The week that followed the ball at Ered Luin, and preceded the arrival of Sir Grey, was a slow one. The intense, cloying weather persisted, draining from even the children the inclination to do much of anything at all. Bilbo found himself getting rather cross at very little provocation and so had taken to secluding himself even more in the dank cellar, and Prim, feeling the same sort of restlessness, had taken to leaving him to his own devices. She spent most of her time beneath the oak tree, watching over Frodo and Sam as they lolled about on the grass.

Their only visitor that week had been Asphodel. Unsurprisingly, she brought very little news from the town. Apparently, Saradoc Brandybuck, near driven mad by his younger brother’s complaints with the summer weather, had departed for Gloucester that very morning; hopefully, to buy a ring and propose to Esmeralda Took at long last.

The day of Sir Gandalf’s Grey’s arrival brought with it minor relief in the form of a light breeze, though nothing so pleasant as a thunderstorm to break through the heat. Bilbo had even braved the outdoors and was thusly sat upon the iron bench in the courtyard when the dark carriage arrived. Were it any other guest, Bilbo would have been horrified of his welcome; sat smoking his pipe with his waistcoat unbuttoned and his cravat abandoned inside, his cousin and nephew not even present to greet him. Sir Grey, however, had never given much thought to propriety so when the man stepped down from the carriage, he did not even deign to tap out his pipe and instead offered a lazy smile from his seat in the shade.

“So the prodigal baronet returns,” he hailed, “Good afternoon Sir Grey!”

“Bilbo Baggins!” cried the other delightedly, “And I hope you do not mean the weather, for this heat is most dreadful!”

“Indeed,” said Bilbo in agreement, “I mean to wish you a good afternoon.”

“Well I am sure it shall be, now that I am here my boy,” replied Gandalf, giving a cursory nod to Hayward as the butler saw to it that his luggage was carried indoors. “Where is your dear cousin? And young Master Frodo? I am most eager to meet your beloved nephew at last.”

“You will find them in the garden, along with the Gamgee’s youngest boy. Come, I will take them to you,” he rose from his seat then, tapping out his pipe and leaving it on the seat.

He led Gandalf through the stone arch at the side of the house that connected the front courtyard with the gardens.

“Consorting with farmers Mr Baggins?” Gandalf asked, his tone teasing and kind, “Why your mother would be proud!”

“And my father’s family are suitably horrified, I assure you,” answered Bilbo, eliciting a chuckle from the baronet. “Though at the moment they are more concerned with the conduct of myself and Primula.”

“I thought you said in your letters that such matters had quieted?”

“They had,” Bilbo grimaced wryly, “But this is Little Bagshot, and such matters always have a habit of flaring up again and then dying down accordingly when something of greater interest occurs. On that subject, I must thank you.”

“Whatever for?” said Gandalf, smiling in bemusement.

“For sending an acquaintance of yours our way - Mr Fundinson is a most amiable fellow.”

“That is is,” he agreed. By then they had reached the bright green spread of the lawn and both grinned at the sight of Frodo and Samwise tussling in the grass, Primula watching from her seat beneath the oak, attention no longer on the embroidery in her fingers.

“Prim, Frodo, Sam!” Bilbo called, drawing the notice of the three. Frodo and Samwise paused their fight momentarily to regard the new face curiously before returning to their rendition of the Battle of Bosworth. Primula smiled broadly, casting her craft to the side and rising to greet them.

“Sir Grey, welcome to Bag-End!”

Over dinner Gandalf secured himself as a firm favourite of young Frodo as he regaled them with tales of his adventures to Spain some decades before. Afterwards he and Bilbo retired to the veranda, a glass of whisky and a pipe apiece, occasionally passing comment when one of them blew a particularly impressive smoke ring.

“You have not yet asked my purpose in being here,” said Gandalf after what might have been half an hour spent in this peaceful fashion.

“You always have a purpose,” Bilbo accused, but there was no harshness to his words. “I see no reason to ask it of you before you see fit.”

Gandalf said nothing more for a moment, and Bilbo blew another ring, admiring the contrast between the pale wisps and the darkening sky before the smoke melted away into nothingness.

“How would you feel about an adventure my boy?”

When he was a young boy, Bilbo had wanted nothing more than to follow in the footsteps of his mother’s vagabond friend, see the bold world that lay far beyond the borders of Gloucestershire, or indeed the coasts of his home isle. This had never come to pass, for with age Bilbo had grown to be more like his father than his mother, choosing instead the comforts and pleasures of home and settling into the quiet life of a bachelor afforded to him by Bag-End and its estates. Now his books offered him adventures, carrying him to far off places in his imagination and for the most part, that was enough, but if, in a quiet moment he found himself wondering at what it would be like to just pack up a bag and leave, with no real destination in mind, well, he had never told anybody, not even Primula.

“Depends,” he answered slowly, tone careful to avoid the surge of nostalgia that had arisen at the mere mention of adventure. “Where to?”

“London. I will there some three weeks, after Michaelmas.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow in amusement. “I would hardly call town an adventure.”

“Yet you have never left the county.”

“Point taken.”

Bilbo sighed and turned his gaze back to the pinkish haze of the dusk. London was indeed not all that far and he had always wished to see the capital, had wondered if the hustle and bustle was really as described, so far from his tranquil existence here in Little Bagshot.

“Very well.”

Gandalf smiled then, “I will be most glad to have you accompany me Bilbo. This will be good for you, I feel.”

“And amusing for yourself?” he questioned, lips quirked into a small smile.

“You know me too well,” he chuckled, sending a ring of smoke through Bilbo’s own.

Bilbo widened his smile, relaxing back into his chair.

London - he looked forward to the prospect.

“I was wondering,” Gandalf began after a while longer. Bilbo hummed in response. “If I may call upon Mr Fundinson, perhaps on the morrow? I should like to see how he is, now that he has taken up Ered Luin.”

“There is no need, for I told him of your coming and tomorrow he comes to tea.”

Hayward appeared then, whisky decanter in hand to refill their glasses with the rich amber liquid. Both smiled and gave their thanks and Bilbo immediately reached for his crystal tumbler, taking a quick sip before he spoke.

“Fundinson brings his friend - Durin - I do not know if you are acquainted at all?”

“I know Mr Durin,” Gandalf replied, his tone carefully blank in such a contrast to the cheery one before it that it made Bilbo smile wryly.

“He does not endear himself on first acquaintance does he?”

Gandalf paused in the midst of taking a sip of his drink to offer an ungracious snort.

“I am quite surprised that is even here, to be quite honest - he thought me ridiculous for even suggesting it. He did not understand the appeal of anywhere that is not town or his native Yorkshire. I trust you have been able to change his mind?”

“I believe we are starting to,” replied Bilbo honestly, “Though he declared me a farmer upon first meeting me.”

The baronet raised his thick grey brows in surprise, “Indeed?” When Bilbo offered no contradiction, he laughed lightly. “Then I wonder at your thinking well of him at all.”

“He is not so terrible,” Bilbo argued, wondering at why he had become such a defender of Mr Durin’s manner and reputation in recent days. “It would be ungracious of me not to offer him a chance to redeem himself. Many a bad decision has been made in the formation of a hasty judgement.”

The other was looking at him then, he was smiling, but his eyes were wise and knowing and seemed to bore into him to depths Bilbo himself was not aware of and it made him shift uncomfortably in his chair.

“He has done well then, to secure a friendship such as yours.”

Though the night was still hot, it had not the oppressive humidity of the day so Bilbo and his guest remained outside, their conversation now intermittent as before, sending wisps of smoke into the sky until Bilbo felt his eyes begin to droop and he was forced to retire.

The following morning passed by in the same idleness, though Gandalf’s presence forced Bilbo out of the cellar and under the shaded oak. The older man told him and Primula of the great Rivendell Abbey, reminding them of the time his mother had spent there before she had married his father. Apparently she had been a favourite of the current Duke and Gandalf was quite certain he would have proposed had Belladonna not been so devoted to one Mr Bungo Baggins.

Bilbo wondered at it for a moment - his mother and a Duke!

The idea was marginally less preposterous when he considered that she had been the daughter of an Earl. Yet for all her adventurous spirit, the Belladonna he remembered had never been more at home than by the side of his father whether that be in her rockery in the spring or before the warm glowing hearth in the autumn.

The thought of her living anywhere but Bag-End did not sit right with him; the house bore the imprints of her and his father. Even now, he could see them, sat on their bench in the rockery that had since rotted away, each with their nose buried in a book and their hands clasped loosely between them.

After a luncheon in the dining room which was saved from the heat of the morning by its west-facing windows, they returned to the garden and Gandalf began to tell them a little of his time as a guest of Catherine II of Russia, though he was rather vague as to how this came to be, preferring instead to describe the great majesty of her residence, the Winter Palace and the long summer nights where dark would fall for but an hour or so.

Bilbo never supposed that he should reach somewhere so far, not when even the Scottish Highlands seemed too distant for him to ever conceive seeing them in all their glory.

Several hours had passed before any realised it and their attention was drawn from the baronet’s description of the great throne room of the tsars to Hayward, who emerged on the veranda to inform them of the arrival of Misters Fundinson and Durin.

“Goodness, is that the time!” Bilbo cried. “Show them through, please, and have Gamgee prepare the tea.”

He scurried over to the table, not even bothering to check his tan breeches for grass stains, Gandalf following in his wake at a much more sedate pace and Primula not even bothering to move just yet.

His butler announced their guests and Bilbo greeted them both with a smile,

“I hope you do not mind if we take tea out here today?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Mr Fundinson beamed, “I have better chance to enjoy your garden for it seems to be even lovelier by the light of day.”

There seemed to be a certain tightness to the other gentleman’s features and Bilbo wondered if he were perhaps remembering the last time he had been in the garden of Bag-End. As a Baggins, he was nothing if not a thoughtful host, and so he smiled, recalling their conversation at the ball as he addressed Mr Durin.

“I am afraid my cousin would not allow for another chair to be taken to the cellar, never mind three, so it would be quite impossible for us to secrete ourselves downstairs where it is blissfully cool.”

“This heat is not so bad,” Gandalf cut in, “And you do not appreciate good weather whilst you have it, then lament it when it is gone.”

“Watch now,” Bilbo said, with the impish air of a conspiratory whisper, “For he shall tell us all now of the three months he spent in the Sahara Desert, learning from the shaman of a tribe.”

“It was the Kalahari, actually,” Gandalf replied mulishly, adding something that sounded distinctly like ‘insolent boy’ under his breath.

This drew a chuckle from both gentlemen before the four of them seated themselves upon the chairs about the small garden table.

“I understand it was Sir Grey who recommended Little Bagshot to you, was it not?”

“Indeed,” Mr Fundinson responded, “We formed an acquaintance in London. He was most complimentary of this delightful town.”

“I hold a great affection for it; both Mr Baggins’ mother and his grandfather were dear friends of mine,” he paused for a moment, before fixing his twinkling grey eyes on Mr Durin, “I find one could learn all about Little Bagshot in month, yet still be surprised by the townsfolk after a decade, do you not agree, Mr Durin?”

Mr Durin met Gandalf’s challenging stare with his usual dignity, “I find I must disagree with you, for it has been more than a month and I still find I am learning.”

The baronet settled back in his seat, a small satisfied tilt to his lips. Bilbo supposed he was pleased at having proven Mr Durin wrong with regards to Little Bagshot, despite having no real influence in the matter.

“Will Mrs Baggins not be joining us?” asked Mr Fundinson as he eyed Primula who remained in the shade of the oak.

“Well there are enough chairs,” Gandalf said.

Bilbo rose slightly from his seat and waved his arm above his head, drawing the attention of both Frodo and Samwise as well as his cousin.

“Primula, come join us,” he called. Her shoulders dropped in what he knew was a sigh - he too had been reluctant to remove himself from the shade - and she rose slowly, brushing off her white linen dress before moving across the grass to join them.

As she exchanged greetings with their two visitors, she slid into the remaining chair, between Gandalf and Mr Durin, though she did not say any more for Hayward appeared then with the tea tray. They all settled down then and Bilbo silently lamented that he had not the forethought to request some more lemonade be prepared by Gamgee. Despite the weather, Bilbo did love the beverage so he set aside his internal monologue in favour of sipping at the warm drink as Gandalf began to talk of the planned trip to London. Mr Fundinson bemoaned the fact that he should not be there to introduce Bilbo in society but assured him that, come summer’s end, the Urwins would most definitely be in residence at Brunswick Square and would be happy to oblige him.

“I should be in London for Michaelmas,” said Mr Durin, “As I did not intend to stay in Little Bagshot past the summer.”

“I thought you had changed your plans?” asked his friend with a frown.

“I forgot the important business I have to attend to.”

“Ah yes,” drawled Mr Fundinson, his mouth hidden carefully behind his china teacup, “Business. How could I forget?”

* * *

All of a sudden, it seemed, after weeks of anticipation, the picnic at Tuckborough Manor was upon them and the Earl had indeed spared no expense. The whole of Little Bagshot society had gathered upon the rolling expanse of the green lawns; some were hiding in the shade of the oaks that stood at the edges, some ladies beneath the meagre shelter of their parasols and others lay brazenly upon the blankets, skin already turning pink from the glare of the sun.

After he had spoken with his uncle, Bilbo found himself tugged away by Merimac to the corner where the children had collected already and they halted their game once they noticed his approach.

As had become tradition in recent years, Bilbo regaled them with a tale from his book of fairy tales that he had collected himself, providing a much needed break in their play for the hotter hours around midday.

This year he chose a personal favourite of his late grandmother’s, that of the Wealthy Knight, one he had translated personally from the original French book Adamanta had gifted him as a child. It became an instant favourite; the heroine and her band of men with strange skills and their defeat of a dragon and subsequently the emperor’s evil wife was one that provided plenty of action and adventure, especially with Bilbo’s tendency to adlib rather liberally, and as he finished, he realised an hour had passed and he was in great need of a drink.

Leaving the younger children to their play - now a theatrical re-enactment of the story with Esmeralda, despite being already sixteen, taking up the mantle of Belle-Belle, the eponymous knight - Bilbo retreated into the Manor itself where a second drinks table had been laid out to keep the lemonades and other such refreshments cool (and the children away from the punch).

As he poured himself a glass of the sweet raspberry lemonade, he heard footsteps behind him and he turned to greet whoever it was with a friendly smile.

“Mr Baggins,” Mr Durin addressed him pleasantly. He nodded his head towards the gardens, “What brings you inside?”

Bilbo waved his now full glass, “Telling tales builds up quite the thirst.”

“I did not recognise the one you were telling. Did you write it yourself?”

“No, no, I just translated it, from the original French. My great-grandmother, that is to say my grandmother’s mother, was French and so the Countess was always most determined that we should speak it well and write it even better.”

“How very accomplished of you,” said a voice from the shadows. Mr Ryson came slinking out, that ever-present feline smile of his curling at his lips.

“And you are ever so adept when it comes to the children,” piped up the elder Mr Urwin from the threshold, his brother nodding in agreement behind him.

“Only when it comes to telling stories, I’m afraid,” replied Bilbo with a modest chuckle, “Otherwise I am quite at a loss.”

“Well I’ve never seen my eldest three so quiet in a long while,” Mr Bombur said with a good-natured smile. “Perhaps you might even be able to calm down young Fíli and Kíli, what do say Durin?”

“My nephews,” the gentleman clarified to Bilbo, “And yes, I daresay they would rather like Mr Baggins - they have always been so very fond of stories, after all.”

Bilbo had grown quite embarrassed at the mounting praise and shifted uncomfortably.

“Well we cannot all be here to talk of my stories.”

“Indeed not,” agreed Mr Ryson, “I came to escape the weather.”

“Would you like me to show you where I used to go on hot summer days as a boy?”

Mr Durin frowned, “You are not going to lead us down into the cellars are you?”

Bilbo laughed, “No. Heaven forbid - a whole brood of Took children being allowed in the vicinity of the Earl’s precious wine stocks! No sir, I shall take you to the Long Gallery.”

With a broad smile, he gestured for the others to follow as he led them on the familiar path to the upstairs gallery.

The Long Gallery was, as the name suggested, incredible in its length, spanning almost the entire width of the Manor. It was airy, but with few windows to better protect the vast array of paintings that hung upon its walls. From behind him came several noises of awe and appreciation as his friends entered behind him and he allowed himself a small yet proud smile.

“This is Tuckborough Manor’s Long Gallery.”

“It is beautiful,” murmured Mr Durin, just off to his right.

“I hope you will forgive my saying, Mr Baggins,” began Mr Urwin, whose head was tilted back, dark eyes wide as he regarded the ceiling. “But I fail to see how this room - spectacular though it is - was such a diversion for children.”

Bilbo craned his own neck back to look fondly upon the painted ceiling, gesturing at it in a waving motion, “This ceiling holds a great many stories - the first Earl Westfarthing was a great fan of Greek Mythology you see - and so we would lie upon the cool flooring and one of us - most often myself - would tell the tale.”

“Can you show us your favourite?” Mr Bombur asked.

Bilbo nodded, “It is just a bit further down.”

The sound of their boots as they clicked upon the polished floor echoed through the gallery, emphasising the stillness of the room in relation to the excitement of the picnic that could be heard outdoors.

“Look, there is Pandora’s Box,” exclaimed Mr Ryson. “Why, my younger brother would adore this room.”

“How old is Master Ori now?” asked Mr Urwin. “He must almost be ready for society!”

“He is but eighteen and is quite intent on studying further, I assure you,” he paused and turned to smile at Bilbo then. “When you are in London Mr Baggins - for Mr Fundinson tells me you are to be in town from Michaelmas - you must allow me to introduce you to my brother, both of my brothers in fact, for I have an elder brother also.”

Bilbo grinned in reply, “I should be delighted.”

Now, they had reached the spot beneath the depiction of Persephone, torn between her sorrowful mother and the lovelorn Hades (the first Earl was a terrible romantic and thus had commissioned this particular piece under the belief that Persephone had fallen for the brooding Lord of the Underworld in turn).

Bilbo had the others lie on the floor, their heads together in a circle, as he would have done with as a child, and explained this anecdote to them, eliciting several chuckles.

“In fact, if you look at the myths, many of the more romantic ones are incredibly so. Unfortunately, the first Earl passed before the ceiling could be completed and his son, a rather more dour fellow, altered several of the myths commissioned to the rather more morbid ones, such as the Icarus and Daedalus, which is just before the other door.”

“So have the Tooks always been in the Manor then?”

“Oh indeed Mr Bombur,” Bilbo replied. He wanted to turn his head to face his audience, but he contented himself with continuing to study the intricacies of the ceiling. “Tuckborough Manor was built by the father of the first Earl - the fourth Viscount Took who had amassed a great amount of gold by sponsoring privateers that pillaged Spanish ships in the Caribbean - though it would take his son to see it completed. It was not long after he inherited the estate that he was created the Earl of Westfarthing and it has been the seat of my family ever since.”

“So what you are saying, Master Baggins,” began Mr Durin in a tone that verged on teasing, “Is that the great wealth of the Tooks is in fact based on plundered gold?”

“Indeed it is so,” he answered. Bilbo tilted his head to offer the gentleman an irreverent grin, “Thieves and pirates the lot of us.”

“Sounds rather more suited to me,” quipped Mr Ryson, earning him chuckles from each of his friends. “Are you sure we are not related?”

Bilbo was quite content then, to take his turn at listening as the other four gentlemen recounted stories from their youth. Mr Durin, it transpired, had been at school with both Mr Urwin, the Colonel and Mr Ryson’s elder brother whilst Mr Ryson, Mr Bombur and the Fundinson’s cousin, a Mr Glóin Fundinson, had all been in attendance together some years later. As such, they had plentiful of tales that kept them all entertained until they were interrupted by Primula, what turned out to be several hours later.

“So this is where you have all been hiding,” she called from the doorway with mocking chastisement, “Come along to the garden now. Bilbo, Uncle Isumbras is to present the cake.”

Bilbo was quite certain the others laughed at the speed with which he leapt up from the floor but he cared not for he was a great lover of cake and for the picnic, the Earl spared no expense.

When they arrived in the garden, Bilbo immediately moved to join young Frodo near the front along with the other members of the Took family whom the party honoured. He returned the grin flashed his way by Rosamunda before watching as a covered cart was wheeled into the garden by no less than four servants.

“Ladies and gentlemen, both honoured guests and relatives,” Isumbras started, his great booming voice carrying over the garden, “I would like to thank you all for joining us on this day. I have not a great speech planned, for I know you are all most eager to begin the cake, but I wish you all to humour me when I ask you all to wish good health our summer children.”

At the chorus of well wishes, little Frodo puffed his chest up proudly, the gesture bringing an even wider smile to his uncle’s face.

“Now, without further ado, I present the cake.” With a wave of his hand, Isumbras indicated to his servants to lift back the cover, revealing a spectacular - and absolutely enormous - cake with white icing, edged with fluted piping.

Each was given a chance to admire the great accomplishment of the kitchen staff before it was returned to the house to be sectioned into portions. The guests dispersed once more, the children gathering about Gandalf, begging him to tell of the fireworks he had planned for that very evening. He was, as Gandalf was wont to be, tightlipped about the subject - evidently wishing for his display to remain a surprise.

Given that the majority of the children gathered were too young to have ever seen one of the baronet’s firework displays, Bilbo doubted any of them would have been any less awed had they known what to expect beforehand. As it was, they sat beneath the dark sky, mouths agape at the explosions of colour and light. Even the majority of the adults were watching with something akin to wonderment.

A particularly large cannon shot into the air, its red and gold briefly holding what Bilbo believed to be the form of a roaring lion before the vibrant sparks faded into the night. He smiled unrestrainedly up at the sky, because for that moment, upon the lawn of Tuckborough Manor, he was a child again, curious and untroubled by the ways of the world.

Frodo shifted in his lap, drawing him back to the present and he looked down, smile only widening as he watched the fireworks reflected in the boy’s wide eyes, and felt the small hands clenched excitedly around his own.

Perhaps life had not always been kind, here were some things he would not change for the world. Doing away with his maudlin train of thought, he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his nephew’s head - the boy did not stir, as entranced as he was - and turned his head back up to watch the burning colours in the sky.

There, at odds with the thunderous claps above him, Bilbo felt at peace.

 


	5. ever-fixèd mark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this has taken a lot longer than I intended and I'm very sorry for the delay. I'm right in the midst of exams at the moment and between that and illness, I haven't had all that much time to write.  
> That being said, I'm done on the 20th and will, from then on, have a lot more time at my disposal.  
> Next chapter will eventually get us to London!  
> For any of you who are curious, the houses etc, are over on [my regency tag](theindianwinter.tumblr.com/tagged/regency/).  
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!

**_ever-fixèd mark_ **

 

The following week brought the long awaited break in the weather, driving all of Little Bagshot indoors to watch the deluge from the safety of their parlours. Gandalf had departed just before the rains began - to visit his old friend, the Duchess of Devon - with the promise to return one month hence, around the date of Bilbo’s birthday, ready to whisk the younger gentleman away to London.

Presently, with no guests to occupy his time, or friends that would dare venture out into the downpour for the sake of gossip, Bilbo was content to remain in the parlour, accompanied by nought but the gentle crackle of the small fire in the hearth and a good book to read on the downfall of the Roman Empire. 

In wake of the bad weather, young Frodo grew restless, especially in the absence of his new favourite raconteur and could now be relied upon to grumble and grouse at each available opportunity. When his friend Sam braved the weather, he was of a much more agreeable temper for the two spent the entire day playing an elaborate game of hide and seek that disturbed Bilbo’s reading for the whole morning such that, by the afternoon, he gave it up completely in order to join in their games. Despite his considerably larger size, he had a much greater knowledge of all the nooks and crannies within Bag-End and it took the boys best part of an hour just to find him. 

Primula seemed almost as restless as her son, flitting between one activity and another, without spending her time to commit herself to any one project. By the week’s end, she had started three different embroideries, one sketch and four watercolours, none of which were more than halfway complete and she too, joined in the children’s games, but only on the second day that Samwise was able to make it from the farm. 

Mrs Gamgee was reluctant at first to let her boy out, lest he get a cold just before school began, but with young Frodo soon to return to school himself, she was loath to part the two friends. She would arrive at Bag-End House before Bilbo could send out a carriage to collect her, but he did manage to persuade her to allow him to have her borne home in his coach. 

Just more than a week passed by in this sedate manner, enclosed in the house, before the rain faded to a drizzle and an excitable Asphodel came calling with no mind for the dishevelled nature of her appearance caused by the weather. 

“Sister! Cousin!” she cried, poor Hayward having barely been able to announce her. “You will never guess the news!”

Bilbo gave a nod to Hayward for the butler to send Gamgee with tea before turning his attention to his slightly sodden cousin who now sat adjacent to Prim, about the small table where she worked upon her embroidery. 

“Do tell us then.”

“I have just this moment heard from Menegilda herself,” she gushed.

“You do not mean to say Saradoc has finally made Esmeralda an offer?” Primula gasped with mocking amazement. After all, such a thing had been anticipated for quite some time, though many had said in jest that it would be the young lady who instead approached her suitor. 

Asphodel grinned, “This very morning.”

“That is good news indeed,” Bilbo said with a smile of his own. 

“Will they be married from Brandy Hall?” asked his cousin of her sister. 

“I believe so,” nodded Asphodel, “In the spring. With no weddings this summer, it has been much too long since the last.”

“Indeed, and with Miss Rosamunda waiting until her father returns we are not likely to have any more for a while after that,” Bilbo reasoned. 

It was a great shame, he thought, that his cousin Sigismond had chosen the Navy as a career, as it was something far more Tookish in nature than Bilbo would ever pursue - he may have been the son of Belladonna Took, but in many ways, he was much more like his father - a respectable Baggins of Bag-End. Captain Sigismond Took had followed in the footsteps of his own, now retired father, and was able to offer Rosamunda a sizeable dowry, funded largely with gold of questionable (French) origin which had made her choice of Odovacar Bolger, respectable though he was, rather surprising. Indeed, had she been presented in London society, she would have been certain to make a most advantageous match. 

“Unless you have plans cousin,” Prim added, even having the gall to wink. Bilbo resisted the urge to roll his eyes for she had been teasing him about a certain matter all week.

“Oh indeed,” cried Asphodel, delighted as she noted Bilbo’s unamused expression, “I had quite forgotten the matter of the ball at Ered Luin and I have not had chance to tease you properly for it yet. Two dances, Mr Baggins! Shall I expect to hear wedding bells?”

“You most certainly shall not!” Bilbo protested. 

“I am afraid, dear sister, that Bilbo here believes Mr Durin to be just a friend,” Primula addressed Asphodel in a conspiratory stage-whisper. 

“Oh indeed?” Asphodel turned to him, her eyebrows raised in amusement. 

“Indeed,” Bilbo huffed, “The poor gentleman is afflicted with bad manners that conflict most horrendously with the kindness he possesses. Though it remains tentative at present, I can confidently declare that we are friends.”

Looking far too diverted for Bilbo’s own peace of mind, both sisters regarded him silently for a moment and he was thankfully saved from their response by Gamgee arriving with the tea and a lemon sponge cake. After she had departed the parlour, he was able to safely direct the topic back to the subject of Saradoc and Esmeralda’s engagement and away from whatever fanciful notions his cousins had conjured up in their heads regarding himself and Mr Durin. 

* * *

Much to Bilbo’s delight - and if he was being quite honest here, surprise - Primula and Asphodel let him alone for the rest of the week. With the damp weather persisting, he elected to remain indoors for the most part, continuing with his book on the fall of Rome until one day there came an invitation to tea, up at Ered-Luin. Having not had the pleasure of his friends’ company since the picnic at Tuckborough, Bilbo all but leapt at the offer, scribbling out an acceptance straight away, to be taken back to Mr Fundinson. 

The post also came with an invitation to an intimate affair at Brandy Hall, one to celebrate the engagement of Saradoc and Esmeralda that would be held ten days hence. Primula was pleased to remark that this fell the two days after Frodo’s imminent departure for school and thus would provide her at least some small thing to hope for, after her separation from her dear son. Bilbo was certain this was good for her as well, for he was quite sure her neglect to mention his departure to London was an attempt to forget that soon she would be left to an empty house. 

Before his leaving, Gandalf had offered her the opportunity to join them on their trip to London, but she, to Bilbo’s confusion - Prim had always been the most adventurous of children of their generation - had politely declined the offer, even citing that one should not wish to leave Bag-End without a mistress. It was most peculiar, he thought, for she had not even behaved this way the year previous, when young Frodo was away to his very first year of schooling. 

Nevertheless, Bilbo was still most excited at the prospect of seeing London - as Gandalf had chided him for, he did indeed have little experience outside of his own little corner of the Cotswolds, save perhaps for his venture a little further North to Rugby for school, but that was neither here nor there - and he was so fortunate as to have an acquaintance there already, with Mr Fundinson’s larger circle among the ton. According to Gandalf, they would in fact be staying at the Town residence of the Duke of Suffolk, Earendil House in St James’ Square, and Bilbo himself was most eager to make the acquaintance of Lord Elrond, his mother’s old friend. 

At Ered Luin the following day, he was quickly assured that his enthusiasm was not at all one-sided. 

“It is such a shame that we must quit Little Bagshot so soon, but at least I am consoled by the fact we shall not be parted from you for too long, my friend,” Mr Bombur said, a kindly smile stretching his round cheeks. Bilbo returned the gesture wholeheartedly. 

They took tea in the habitual parlour - himself, Mr Fundinson, the two Urwin brothers, Mrs Urwin and Mr Ryson, however Mr Durin and the Colonel were absent; away in Gloucester, though Mr Fundinson could not quite remember what business it was that had called the pair away. 

Barely had Bilbo sat down, rubbing his hair, dampened by the drizzle, than the conversation began with the topic of London - of his friends’ imminent departure and his own visit. 

“We would stay, but alas the children must be educated,” Mr Urwin sighed dramatically. 

“Yes, Primula and I were debating whether we can just keep Frodo and avoid sending him back at all.”

“See the excellent thing about living in London, is that I don’t need to send my boys away,” Mrs Urwin added with a decisive nod. 

“Would that it be the case!”

“Durin is so very lucky,” Mr Bombur continued, “That he can hire a tutor for his nephews.”

“Indeed,” Bilbo sighed, “But my late cousin would have it that his son be educated according to his mother’s wishes and the Bolgers, well they are a line of Old Wykehamists, so to Winchester he went.”

“I thought you said no-one really left Little Bagshot?” Mr Ryson asked curiously.

“Indeed not. Perhaps it is being sent away for school. It does not endear one any to the outside world. Mayhaps most feel they will receive lashings wheresoever they may go from home.”

Mr Urwin and Mr Ryson both snorted into their teacups at that.

“It is a wonder Ryson here every got the desire to leave at all then!” quipped Mr Urwin. 

His friend gave another snort - one of a decidedly incredulous nature - and quirked his thick brow “Indeed Urwin?”

“Indeed,” Mr Urwin replied with haughty false innocence.

“Of course,” began Mrs Urwin archly, “It is not as if my dear brother-in-law has taught my sons any interesting tricks.”

“No, I have not,” he replied, still feigning innocence, “If you refer to that incident with the quince jam and the matron’s loafers, I am afraid to say that was most certainly something of their own volition.”

“How strange,” Bilbo commented mildly, “For I do recall you regaling me with tales of a similar incident, did you not, Mr Ryson?”

Much to his credit, Mr Ryson remained completely straight-faced and did not choke on his tea as an amused Mr Bombur did. His wife merely smiled victoriously at Mr Urwin. Mr Fundinson sat, calmly sipping his tea with a placid yet entertained expression that belied his own thoughts of similar times during his school days, though he was fortunate not to have a soul there with sufficient knowledge to reveal any indiscretions. 

“Just you wait, Mr Baggins,” Mr Fundinson said, when Bilbo muttered this to him on an aside, “For soon you shall be in London and then, then you shall meet several of my old friends and I will remain here, where I cannot say a word against it.”

“Well I doubt there should be anything to impugn your honour too greatly.”

Mr Fundinson just smiled enigmatically into his teacup. 

* * *

 

With so few people ever leaving Little Bagshot, Bilbo was not well-acquainted with bidding farewell to either friends and family and as such, was not all that adept at doing so - something he could well admit to. The start of the week saw the departure of almost all the guests at Ered Luin - the Colonel included, though Mr Durin chose to remain behind (according to Mr Fundinson he had no need to attend to his business just yet) - leaving a rather maudlin Mr Fundinson in their wake who, within an hour of their leaving, sat taking tea upon the veranda at Bag-End. 

Subsequent to that, at the week’s end, came the time for Frodo to return to school. He was accompanied, as he had been the previous year, by Hayward and, as much as Bilbo was loath to part with his butler, even for just a few days, he knew it was of a great comfort to Primula that her young son was borne to the very door of his school. 

In the few days prior to his departure, Bilbo and Primula forwent all their habitual social calls and instead immersed themselves in games. With the engagement party due to be held at Brandy Hall that weekend, Merimac was thusly entrusted largely to the care of his aunt whilst they prepared. Wednesday brought particularly glorious weather and so that morning began a rather ambitious round of hide-and-go-seek, encompassing all of the grounds of Bag-End and soon Bilbo found himself kneeling behind a grassy knoll, near the edge of his property, his breathing measured as he listened for the sound of approaching children. 

Instead, he found himself quite startled by the sound of a heavy tread behind him and he turned to find none another than Mr Durin nearing him, a bemused smile twitching at his lips. 

“Mr Baggins, good afternoon,” he greeted, coming to a stop at Bilbo’s feet. 

The gentleman it seemed, had been partaking in a stroll, and his cheeks were flushed a little pink from the exertion. 

“Good afternoon,” Bilbo replied, then at the soundof an excited shout from the direction of the house, hurriedly gestured for Mr Durin to join him on the ground.

“You find us in the middle of a game of hide-and-go-seek,” he explained in a hushed voice once his friend had lowered himself into a crouch. 

Amusement sparked behind Mr Durin’s eyes, “And for how long have you been playing?”

“All day so far,” he answered, “Though I have only been hidden here for half an hour at most.”

“You are going a little pink,” he commented and oh, was he a little close for the sake of propriety! - Bilbo could make out the fine creases at the corners of his eyes. Not only that, but Bilbo himself was out only in his shirtsleeves and grass-stained at that. 

Mr Durin remained oblivious to Bilbo’s mild panic with regards to his respectability and instead shifted until he was sat rather than crouched, settled with his back leaning against the knoll, as Bilbo now was.

“Will it be long before they find us?”

Bilbo frowned, “Us?”

Durin nodded, “Certainly, if I stand now, I may give you away, and we could not have that now, could we?”

Bilbo blinked for a moment, just a moment, as he processed the fact that Mr Durin was smirking at him in a manner that could almost be called playful. 

“No,” he said, then after a pause added, “Of course it shall be some time, I am somewhat of an expert at hide-and-go-seek you know.”

Mr Durin smiled, “Are you indeed?”

“Yes, once, when my cousins and I were playing a game at the Manor it took over four hours to find me. I was quite happy, for I had a book with me and I had relieved the kitchen of several scones.”

Mr Durin chuckled, “I can well imagine. Tuckborough is much the same size as Erebor and I remember my siblings and I embarking on quite the adventures when I was young.”

“I wish I had had siblings,” Bilbo sighed, “I have always had my cousins I suppose, and Primula especially is as dear to me as a sister could be, yet it is not quite the same, I fear.” Mr Durin was watching him, a little pensively so Bilbo proffered up a reassuring smile, one he was sure turned out a bit wrier than he intended. 

“You have a brother and sister, do you not?” he continued swiftly. 

The other man hummed an assent, then, “Frerin and Dís. My sister lives at Erebor with me and Frerin in Fort William.”

“Scotland?”

“Bengal.”

“Whatever took him there?”

“Adventure, he said,” Durin sighed, “I have not seen my brother in almost a decade, though we do receive letters from time to time.”

Bilbo could see a melancholy begin to cloud the man’s blue eyes so, with a tentative smile, he asked, “What are they like, your siblings?”

“Fundinson tells me they are of a lot better humour than I,” he chuckled and Bilbo answered with one of his own. However, he was coming to think of Mr Durin as rather easy-tempered, if somewhat lacking in social graces, though he could well understand how the man’s disposition leant itself to a dour reputation - it was, after all, an opinion Bilbo had held himself for a time. 

Mr Durin turned his gaze to the sky, a little wistful, “Frerin has always been a bit of a dreamer, I guess you could say, rarely serious, and with a tendency to spend as much time in his head as with the rest of us. Dís is more grounded and exceedingly strong-minded - oh indeed, when she set her sights on her dear husband Víli, well the poor fellow never stood a chance, though it did not matter all too much for he was madly in love with her as it was.”

Falling silent for a moment, he grew serious once more, his gaze dropping to his hands where he absentmindedly shredded a fat blade of grass. 

“She misses him dearly, you know,” he continued, in a quieter, almost confessional tone, “I know she does, though she does her best to hide it, for the benefit of the boys more than anything - they are young still, and I do not think they quite understand it.”

“I do not think Frodo does either,” Bilbo replied sadly, “His father was a good man, and I do not wish to take Drogo’s place is his affections, yet…”

He fell silent, mind grasping at the words to express his fear, one that lurked, ever present, at the back of his mind. Mr Durin was looking at him with such understanding he had to look away, down to his hand, fisted in the grass at his side. There was a touch to his elbow, so brief Bilbo might have imagined it, if not for the warmth that lingered on the fabric of his sleeve. 

After a little while, Mr Durin spoke again, “Will it really take them so long to find us?”

“Indeed,” Bilbo gave a weak smile, “I have a good twenty-five years more experience than the boys. This is my way of teaching them all the hiding spots.”

“The hard way?” said Durin amusedly. Then, he frowned a little, “I had not thought you were more than five and twenty.”

Bilbo gave a short laugh at that, “You flatter me sir. Five and twenty indeed!”

The gentleman grinned at him, “I don’t you suppose you shall confess your age now?”

“Indeed not,” Bilbo cried, aghast, though his bluster was all feigned. “I shall take it as a compliment and let my true age remain a mystery.”

The man laughed a little, though any comment Mr Durin he may have added further was silenced as the excitable shouts of both Merimac and Samwise sounded across the field and both gentlemen fell into a conspiratory silence, sinking lower into the grass. 

They were found not long after and Bilbo retreated indoors for some afternoon tea in the shade. Mr Durin turned down the offer, instead choosing to continue his walk, though he did give his assurance that he would be in attendance at Brandy Hall that Saturday. 

* * *

 

The silence that encompassed Bag-End was loud, ever so obvious in its existence and so unlike the usual quiet that would befall the house in the daytime, as if the place were merely sleeping. This was stark, a sudden contrast to the joyful sounds of children that had rang throughout for the duration of the summer. It reminded Bilbo of the stillness that fell over the place after each of his parents had passed and he swallowed thickly, willing away the sorrow that had automatically clenched in his chest. 

Primula looked up at the barest hint of movement, her gaze remaining unfocused from where she had been staring unseeingly at the half-finished embroidery resting in her hands. Bilbo himself was going through the motions of reading; turning the pages every so often, though the words only flitted through the forefront of his mind, dissolving away too quickly for him to even process their meaning. 

Whereas the previous year, their parting was laced with anticipation, guided by Frodo’s own excitement at beginning school, now there was only a sad sort of resignation to the fact. 

Glancing up at his cousin, Bilbo wondered then if he would still perhaps be able to persuade her into joining him on his trip, for he hated the idea of her in Bag-End alone, even with her friends and relatives within such a short distance. If not, he supposed he could ask Amaranth, who lived still in Brandy Hall, if she would consider taking up residence in Bag-End for the duration of his trip. 

After a few more moments ruminating over this possibility, he came to the conclusion that it was the most suitable course of action for Primula was indeed incredibly stubborn and it was challenge enough to persuade her to Hardbottle Lodge when she had decided against it, never mind London.With an almost imperceptible yet decisive nod to himself, Bilbo rose to his feet, setting his book aside, and moved across to the small rosewood writing desk he kept in the library. Primula watched his movement then stood with a sigh, gliding over to the fireplace to ascertain the time from the elaborate clock upon the mantlepiece - it was of a French design and near a century in age; Bilbo had always wondered just where it had come from, for it was most unusual for a Baggins to allow something so clearly French.

“I should think it is almost time for tea,” Primula announced, “I shall have it prepared for when you have finished. Will half an hour suffice?”

Bilbo smiled, “Yes, thank you cousin. I shall come join you in the parlour when I am done.”

She gave a small nod of acknowledgement and swept from the room, leaving Bilbo to compose his letter to Amaranth. 

The following day he was able to coax Primula into taking morning tea up at Brandy Hall whilst he saw to his accounts and she came back several hours later with a reply and a suspicious glance.

“What is it with this sudden written correspondence between yourself and my sister?” she asked, one hand upon her hip as she handed over the letter. 

Bilbo merely hummed vaguely in response as he slid his letter-opener beneath the wax seal. Primula made a short, aggravated noise in her throat before leaving to check upon Gamgee’s progress with their luncheon. 

His cousin’s reply was, as ever, succinct.

‘ _My dear cousin_ ,’ it read, ‘ _I shall be most happy to oblige you. Certainly, I raised such a matter with Asphodel this Monday last, for we were of similar concerns to you. I feel we should meet presently to discuss this further. Would tea next Tuesday be amenable to your good self? Shall we say four o’clock. Yours, Amaranth.’_

Bilbo smiled to himself and tucked the letter into the top drawer of his desk where he kept the majority of his personal correspondence. He would, of course, accept his cousin’s invitation, but in person the following evening. He hoped that the party would go some ways to raise his dear cousin’s spirits, for though Primula’s grief had lessened somewhat overnight, she was still of a markedly more despondent temperament than usual.

* * *

By the time Tuesday was upon them, the atmosphere in Bag-End had eased into one that rather more resembled what it usually was. Bilbo found himself immensely glad for the party for it had gone a long ways to restoring his cousin’s good cheer. After church on Sunday she had begun to tease him once more over the one interaction he had that evening with Mr Durin. Loath as he was to admit it, he was glad for it in the way it cheered her, even at his own expense, though he still failed to understand just why she had latched onto that friendship in particular to goad him about. The man was handsome - indeed such a thing could hardly be denied, on a purely objective basis, of course - yet Bilbo himself did not feel any more attached to him than he had any of Mr Fundinson’s other friends, or indeed Fundinson himself. 

He sighed to himself as he set aside the letter he had not actually been reading - it was from Gandalf and the general issue it addressed was the matter of his return in the forthcoming week, something they had already discussed at length and thus the letter could hardly be expected to contain any new information. With his appointment with Amaranth in just a few hours time, he busied himself with odd little matters in his business - letters to his tenants and so forth - the kinds of things that could whittle away one’s time quite quickly. 

There was a sharp knock upon the door to his study and at his behest, Hayward - freshly returned to Bag-End— appeared. 

“A Mr Durin to see you sir.”

Bilbo’s brow dipped in surprise, but he stood to receive the gentleman as he stepped into the room. Durin looked most harried, Bilbo thought, a flush high on his cheeks and a frown tugging at his brow.

When he bid the man good day and was answered only with a curt nod, he sighed to himself, the sound sparking off agitated pacing in the other gentleman.

“Are you quite alright?” he asked. 

Mr Durin stopped abruptly and heaved a great sigh. 

“I have come to bid you farewell, sir,” he said, and his expression darkened further, “Urgent business calls me away to the North and I do not yet know when the matter might be concluded. This is, of course, a great regret to myself, and I hope you accept my apologies on the matter.”

Bilbo smiled, tentative but reassuring, “Do not worry yourself sir, though I do hope everything is well?”

“So do I,” Durin said, more to himself than to Bilbo, and then he looked up, catching Bilbo’s eye. “If I could perhaps trouble you for your address in London? Then if I can indeed come to town in October, I shall write you.”

“Indeed, it is no trouble at all,” Bilbo replied, moving to his desk to quickly scrawl it upon a piece of paper and he handed it over, unfolded so as to allow the ink to dry. 

Mr Durin glanced down briefly, his eyebrows rising as he processed what was written. 

“You are staying with the Duke of Suffolk?” 

“He is an old friend of Sir Grey’s,” Bilbo explained, “And so I am told, my mother. Are you and heacquainted at all?”

“A little.”

Durin folded the paper away and slid it into his jacket, bowing his head before bidding Bilbo farewell. The master of Bag-End watched him go, fading in the shadows of the corridor before he returned to sit at his desk. 

He sat there, unmoving, with his head resting upon his hands, for how long, he knew not. 

The absence of little footsteps seemed to make the silence ring throughout the house once more. Bilbo sighed to himself, a drawn out, wistful sound, wondering when it was normality returning to Westfarthing had come to be so unappealing. 

At least, he consoled himself, he would not have to bear it for long, for soon - before the next week’s end in fact, he would be in London. 

A slight quiver of excitement ran through him at the thought. 

Yet for now, all was quiet.

 

 

 

 


	6. never shaken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has taken a lot longer than intended and for that I am very sorry.   
> You may be glad to know that as it is summer, I am not intending for there to be any more two month gaps between chapters (in fact, Chapter 7 is already planned and underway)  
> As always, details on the story are over on [the tag](theindianwinter.tumblr.com/tagged/regency) on tumblr.  
> Thanks again to all of you who've stuck with this story so far and I hope to back in a week or so.

**_never shaken_ **

 

The blackness in the carriage was so thick it was almost tangible, as the shutters were pulled across the windows to block out the light of the full moon. The gentle rocking motion should have been soothing yet Bilbo remained awake, eyes straining to make out the approximate figure of the slumbering Gandalf and his mind whirling with the murky half-dreams of those who yearn to sleep, though such respite eludes them. Bilbo did not know how long they had been travelling for since they broke for lunch, but his hunger had long since passed and now he longed only for somewhere to lay his head for the night.

Soon, though not nearly soon enough, they came across a roadside inn, with rooms enough for the two of them. It was not at all a grand affair, but Bilbo felt sleep claim him the moment he allowed himself to collapse onto the lumpy mattress.

The following morning, he awoke, not feeling nearly as well rested as he wished and his temper suffered as a consequence. Gandalf and he breakfasted in silence and remained quiet for the first part of their journey. Bilbo sat and dozed, staring out of the carriage window at the endless green that rolled by. Much as he was excited for London, he longed simply to set his feet on the ground once more and walk, for maybe an hour or so - Gandalf had already informed him of the magnificent St. James’s Park and he wondered if he might be permitted to stroll there that very afternoon.

Quite abruptly, the green turned to grey stone, overlaid with a riot of colours and activity. The carriage moved slower now and Bilbo took his time to observe the capital as they moved through it.  Roads veered off from their own, forming the great tangled web of the city and Bilbo was already entranced. Soon enough, they pulled up before the grand facade of Eärendil House and Bilbo stepped down, taking in a deep breath and tilting his head back to further admire the townhouse. It was cast from light stone, with wrought iron balconies and a vivid blue door set into a great arched doorway.

Following Gandalf up the steps, Bilbo turned at the top to gaze over St James’s Square, central as it was to the pomp and ceremony of the capital. Almost directly opposite, was the imposing yet simplistic Palladian front of Norfolk House, home of the Howards. Bilbo smiled, a slow, small smile of disbelief that he was indeed in London, after so long of seeing only what Westfarthing had to offer.   

The hallway was no less grand, all pale and polished but cast into a peculiar light by the ornate stained-glass of the fanlight above the door. Stood to the side was the butler, surprisingly young, composed of all elegant lines and smoothed features. He would not have looked out of place dancing amongst the gentry, Bilbo reflected.

“Good morning, Sir Grey, Mr Baggins,” he hailed them politely, “Lord Peredhel shall receive you in the parlour momentarily.”

He swept off across the hallway, leaving Bilbo and Gandalf to pause in his wake and he paused at an ajar oak door, offering a slight tweak of a smile, before he stepped through and announced them.

The baronet stepped through the door first, moving to greet the Duke heartily and then the pair of them turned to Bilbo as he lingered still, not too far from the door.

Lord Peredhel was a tall, slender figure, standing taller even than Gandalf. His smile was kind as he looked to Bilbo, softening features that were neither old nor young. His coat was a rich amber in colour, a simple cut, but obviously crafted from the finest fabric.

Behind him, stood a young lady and a gentleman, equally finally dressed, though the young man’s hair was dishevelled, seeming even more so next to the sleek lines of the lady.

Bilbo stood taller and stepped closer to them.

“May I present Mr Bilbo Baggins, of Little Bagshot.”

Lord Peredhel gave a bow of his head in response to Bilbo’s own.

“It is a pleasure, Mr Baggins. Your mother was a most dear acquaintance of mine, I was sorry to hear of her passing.”

“Thank you,” answered Bilbo graciously. His more solemn expression melted back into the gentle smile as he turned to as of yet unidentified pair, and on cue, first the lady stepped forward, then the gentleman.

“This is my daughter,  Lady Arwen Peredhel of Suffolk,” Lord Peredhel introduced. She stepped forward, offering a long gloved hand first to Gandalf, then to Bilbo. She was perhaps the most beautiful lady Bilbo had ever laid eyes on. Lady Arwen had her father’s high forehead, but it was matched by an elegant pointed chin and eyes that shone like a pool bathed in starlight. There was something so very otherworldly about her, something that unnerved him, accustomed as he was to the more homely beauty of the Shire.

“And this,” the Duke continued, “Is my ward, Lord Aragorn Thorongil, Earl of Arnor.”

He stepped forward, impressively tall in his stature also, such that Bilbo felt quite the littleness of his country upbringing for but a moment, then he caught the stains of mud and grass upon the man’s breeches as they exchanged bows and Bilbo caught the impression that he had found one who enjoyed nature as much as he.

“You shall be glad to learn, after your journey, that we have no engagements for this afternoon,” Lord Peredhel stated, reclining back into an ornate armchair. Bilbo sat himself down upon the plush sofa, glad for the comfort it offered compared to the carriage. He was indeed glad of such a thing, for he was certain he would take a walk that afternoon and then retire as early as was respectable following dinner that evening.

“Tomorrow evening, however, we have an invitation to a small dinner party at the Lords Cole’s, do not fear, for I have already secured you both an invitation.”

“Yes, I am not quite familiar with the Coles as I should wish,” Gandalf mused.

“They are quite agreeable, I assure you,” offered Lady Arwen kindly.

“I am sure.”

Bilbo, who had, until now, paid less attention to the many nuances of London society than he now thought he ought to have, had little clue as to their persons, or indeed their standing in society, save for the fact that he was to be their guests on the morrow. He also had the strangest feeling that he had missed an important piece of information regarding Lord Thorongil, for the name had resonated with something in his mind, and that something was lingering in his mind like an itch, not to be satisfied until he had puzzled it out.

“Bilbo, I believe, quite desires a walk, do you not?” Gandalf asked, drawing him back into the conversation.

“Oh indeed,” replied Bilbo, a relieved smile appearing upon his face at the mere thought. “After our journey, I do quite desire to take a stroll and enjoy the fresh air.”

Lord Peredhel smiled wryly, “I do believe the air here is not quite so fresh as it is in the country. Still the gardens of St James’s are quite lovely.”

“I walk there most days,” added Lady Arwen, “I am usually accompanied by Lord Aragorn and one or both of my brothers. They are from Town at present as they are visiting an old friend in Bath. But I shall be glad if you were to accompany us, Mr Baggins.”

Bilbo smiled warmly, “No indeed, the pleasure would be all mine.”

After their luncheon - a fine selection of cold meats and cheeses, but nothing so filling as to impact on the great dinner Gandalf had assured him would be served that evening - Bilbo and Lady Arwen took their walk amongst the lush greenery of the park, accompanied by Lord Thorongil on horseback. The Lord, he was assured, was the finest of horsemen and he had a great attachment to each of his steeds. Indeed, he had a very fine seat upon the saddle and had a way about him, like that of a winter wind, a little bleak, but powerful, almost at one with the trees amongst which he and his mount seemed to dance.

Lady Arwen spoke of him with such fondness, that Bilbo was quite certain of an attachment, and wondered at whether there was an understanding between the two; Lord Thorongil was more reserved than the Lady that it more difficult to discern his feelings on the occasions he slowed to a walking pace, trotting along beside them and contributing a little to their conversation. He did in fact grow positively animated for the brief time they talked about poetry before his mount grew restless and he cantered off once more.

“It is a fine horse,” Bilbo commented admiringly as they watched him leave.

“Indeed, Roheryn, he calls her, from a fine northern breeding stock.”

Bilbo nodded understandingly, though he himself had little knowledge of horses, at least not beyond knowing how to take a seat upon them without subsequently becoming rather rapidly acquainted with the ground.

“She was a gift,” she continued, with a sly, secret smile, “From a secret admirer.”

Bilbo returned her grin, watching as her eyes moved almost instinctively back over to the Lord on his horse. Nothing further was said on the matter, the conversation returning to the light and frivolous topics that characterised such interactions between the newly-acquainted.

 

* * *

The Cole’s townhouse was a little smaller than Eârendil House, but no less richly furnished and the rooms in which their guests gathered were suffused with such warmth, perhaps just as by comparison, for they were so at odds with the cold, moody grey of the evening storm threatening to break outside. Their hosts too, it seemed, were as different as day and night and the comparison was quite literal, for one was dark where the other was light. Bilbo had not much chance to speak to one of their hosts, Lord Glorfindel Cole beyond their initial introduction before he was away, a whirlwind of energy and affability as he moved throughout the party, participating in conversations seemingly at random.

 

Lord Erestor Cole, was rather more reserved by nature, though not unsociable, he had not the same ease amongst the large numbers gathered as did his husband. However, he fell into conversation with Bilbo quite naturally, as both found they shared a great respect for the written word.

The Lords Cole, it transpired, were residents of Suffolk, when not in Town at least, and as neighbours of the Duke, they were thusly well acquainted with the infamous Rivendell Abbey, of which all who had seen it seemed to wax lyrical.

“It is such a shame, you have not seen it,” Lord Erestor said, with genuine remorse, “For the libraries there  - there are several, you see - well, I would wager they are the finest in the country.”

“A bold claim indeed!” exclaimed Bilbo.

“Oh not at all, if you had seen it, you would surely agree. The collection in Eärendil is extensive, but it pales in comparison. I trust the Lord has already introduced you to the library there?”

“Indeed he has, he was most generous in offering me the use of whatever I wish from its shelves.”

Erestor smiled, and a slight huff of a laugh was released from his nose, “The Lord is always so kind when it comes to his books. He is all modesty in other matters, but in his great collection, he takes incredible - and by no means unjustified - pride.”

“My father used to say, that ‘if a gentleman has no pride in his library, then where has he?’” he recalled with a fond smile, “He fancied himself a scholar, above all else, to the extent that my dear grandmother feared he would forgo his inheritance and take up a post at Oxford or Cambridge.”

“A noble profession,” Lord Erestor acknowledged, “I was once tempted towards such a profession myself.”

“What changed your mind?” enquired Bilbo, “If you do not mind my asking, that is.”

“Of course not,” his companion assured him, then his smile turned fond, his gaze seeking out the bright blond head of his husband amongst their guests. Lord Glorfindel offered him a bright smile before returning to the conversation he was presently engaged in, with Gandalf and a dark haired gentleman Bilbo did not know. “Falling in love can do wonders for changing ones opinion on all manner of things.”

“I hear such remarks with alarming frequency of late,” Bilbo commented in a dry tone.

Lord Erestor quirked a dark, elegant eyebrow, “Oh indeed, and might I ask what and whose opinions are so destined to be altered?”

“My own,” Bilbo chuckled, “My dear cousin, Mrs Baggins, is quite adamant I shall regret my present avoidance of matrimony.”

“You cannot always tell, maybe you shall,” Lord Erestor offered amusedly.

“I hope not, for there is a wager resting upon it now.”

After a few brief moments more of conversation, Bilbo excused himself to go refill his glass of punch for it had grown quite empty throughout the course of their conversation and he found himself parched.

Just as he looked across the room, seeking out one from the number amongst his acquaintance, he caught sight of another individual whom he knew through different means than the Duke. After only a moment, in which he had already began to move in his direction, Colonel Fundinson glanced up, smiling then in as warm and friendly a manner of which the gentleman was capable.

“Mr Baggins,” he greeted, when Bilbo was in a near enough proximity.

“Colonel,” Bilbo returned, “I trust I find you in good health?”

“Indeed you do, I thank you. I heard the Duke was in attendance tonight and hoped that I may encounter you. Have you been in London long?”

“But two days.”

“And all in Little Bagshot, how do they fare? I have not heard news since business called Durin up to the North.”

Bilbo could not help the small frown that creased his brow at the mention of the gentleman’s mysterious business, especially since before he had been so certain he would be required in Town, but he quickly smoothed such a look away, “Last I saw your brother, he was in as good health as ever.”

“Though no doubt shorter,” remarked the Colonel with a smirk, “I find him shorter and squatter with each meeting.”

“And yet still a finer figure than yourself,” Bilbo retorted much before he could think on it. He froze momentarily, fearing he had caused offence for he and the Colonel were not yet at that level of friendship which would allow such teasing. To his great relief, however, the gentleman barked out a genuine, surprised laugh, attracting a few eyes for it was so incongruous amidst the gentle murmur of conversation in the room.

“But you see,” the Colonel added in a feigned whisper, “I have my height in my favour. A tall gentleman will always be described as tall, regardless of his other faults, whereas a smaller gentleman will always have his noted upon.”

“It is fortunate then, that I have no such imperfections,” replied Bilbo sniffily.

The Colonel laughed heartily at that, soon drawing Bilbo into his chuckles. Once their mirth had receded somewhat, Bilbo said,

“Are then any of the others here this evening?”

“I am afraid not, but they have been most eager to see you again,” said Fundinson, “If you send word of your arrival, I am sure they shall call on you soon enough.”

 

* * *

Colonel Fundinson was quite right on that very matter, it would transpire, for barely had he sent a brief note, both to Mr Urwin and to Mr Ryson, that he was called upon by the latter in person, Mr Ryson bearing an invitation to tea at the behest of Mr Urwin, who also sent his regrets for not being able to deliver it in person.

 

My Ryson settled himself quite comfortably into an armchair in the parlour, reclining back in it in a decadent manner. Bilbo had been alone in the house, for the Duke and Gandalf had chosen to call upon a friend - a Sir Whitehead, if Bilbo recalled correctly - whilst Lady Arwen called upon some of her own friends and Lord Thorongil had taken Roheryn out once again. Bilbo had turned down the offer to join the young Earl, for the weather outside threatened rain and he did not wish to get caught in it and risk a cold, should the heavens open.

“I rather hoped I would meet the Duke,” commented Mr Ryson wryly, casting his eyes about the room. They settled briefly over various points of interest - the grand oil painting that stretched across the back wall, the ornate Chinese vases that flanked a filigree French clock upon the mantle, the marble bust of Lord Peredhel’s grandfather, with his noble brow and same proud features.

“Sadly he is from home for the afternoon,” Bilbo answered, “Though I am sure he would be glad to make your acquaintance. Despite his rank, I find him to be most agreeable. He has not the arrogance of several of his peers.”

“Perhaps not,” Mr Ryson allowed, having leaned forward so his prominent nose almost brushed against that of the marble bust on the plinth beside him, then he pulled back abruptly and turned to face Bilbo, “Have you encountered the Duke of Somerset at all?”

Bilbo frowned, “Not as of yet? Should I have?”

“I know of him to be acquainted with Lord Peredhel, but I do not know if he is Town. He is among our general acquaintance, here in London. He and Durin are not on the best of terms.”

“Are they not? Whyever is that the case?” Bilbo enquired, seemingly forgetting for a moment about his earlier, less pleasant encounters with the gentleman and his capability for rudeness.

“Indeed,” Mr Ryson smirked, “Well you know of Durin’s lack of tact first hand, and Somerset, well he is is rather well-pleased with himself. Such attributes did not mix.”

Bilbo snorted at that, conjuring up the image of Mr Durin at his least agreeable, faced with a faceless Duke that otherwise strangely resembled a male Lobelia Bracegirdle.

“I can well imagine.”

“Whenever they frequent the same event, such efforts are made to keep them separate,” Nori continued, leaning in with a conspiratory whisper, despite it being only the two of them. “The Duke puts on all the airs and graces of being above such behaviour, but if allowed to talk for more that a brief moment, they have the most childish arguments, it is so very terrible,” he finished, sounding very much as if he took rather great pleasure in the whole matter.

“Indeed, such things much cause such scandal,” Bilbo exclaimed, with similar insincerity, “Why, such behaviour in Little Bagshot would be talked of for weeks. And I’m sure when such an argument is threatened, you go to such efforts to stop it.”

Mr Ryson barked out his sharp laugh at that, “But of course, I would never dream of avoiding intervention merely to prolong returning to the monotony of a society event. Indeed why on earth would I do such a thing?”

“Why indeed,” breathed Bilbo amusedly. “I should love to hear of some such instances.”

“Ah yes, Baggins,” Mr Ryson drawled, “You are always most eager to hear of the humorous missteps of others, yet, I must note, most reluctant to supply us with any of you own.”

“For there are none,” retorted he, facetiously, “I am a moral and upstanding member of society.”

The pair of them were barely able to maintain their eye contact for a moment before they dissolved into a short stream of chuckles.

“Alas,” exclaimed Ryson once his laughter had subsided, “These tales are much better told when Durin himself is present, to add just the correct measures of indignation and insults towards the Duke’s person. If his business in the North concludes that he may be able to visit London before your return, then I shall be sure to introduce the topic. At least Urwin, myself and of course my dear Dwalin shall be more than happy to oblige.”

“And perhaps even by then, I may have had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of the Duke of Somerset also.”

At that moment, the clock upon the mantle chimed half-past the hour, prompting Mr Ryson to leap from his relaxed position in the chair as if stung.

“I must leave you at that Mr Baggins,” he said, hurriedly, already making steps towards the parlour door, “I have an appointment across town on the hour, so I must make haste.”

“Do not worry,” Bilbo assured him. He rose from his own chair and bowed in place. “I suppose I shall see you at tea the day after the morrow?”

“Indeed you shall.”

With nothing more than a brief, parting gesture, Mr Ryson was gone, leaving Bilbo alone to his thoughts for what seemed like the first time since he had arrived in London. Smiling to himself, Bilbo thought of home, for, though he was enjoying himself immensely, he found himself glad that society in Little Bagshot kept him not nearly so busy as a life in London would require of him.

* * *

 Mr Urwin was in no way a fellow without means, but the house he kept on Cheapside seemed rather small when compared to the opulence Bilbo had been exposed to thus far and it belied the rather more humble origins of the Urwins. Bilbo, however, found he preferred the subtle elegance of Mr Urwin’s Gracechurch Street home, for whilst he could never imagine himself living amongst all the noise and activity of London, the place had the atmosphere of somewhere rather more loved, much as he loved Bag-End, as opposed to Eärendil House, which seemed very much the sort of place for the Duke to pass his time when he needed to be parted from his beloved Rivendell. Over the course of his first week here in London, Lord Peredhel had already spoken of the Abbey often, and had extended to Bilbo and his dear cousin an invitation to visit come Spring, when the grounds were to their best advantage.

Mr Urwin kept a comfortable, finely decorated parlour, wherein they sat to take tea. His brother was sadly absent, for he had to take care of some business at one of his warehouses, but Mrs Urwin was present, as were both Colonel Fundinson and Mr Ryson. Bilbo additionally had the pleasure of finally being introduced to the other Fundinson brothers, the Colonel’s cousins, a Mr Óin Fundinson and a Mr Glóin Fundinson. The elder Mr Fundinson was of a similar age to his cousin with whom Bilbo was such good friends, and if he indeed remembered correctly, Bilbo recalled that Balin and he had attended school together. His conversation was somewhat limited, being, as Mr Urwin described, ‘as deaf as a post’ and he tended to bark out his responses at a rather higher volume than the others.

Mr Glóin, however, more than made up for his brother’s apparent quiet being a boisterous and joyous fellow, with a great many tales to tell of his dearest wife and child, a young boy by the name of Gimli, who perhaps got into more scrapes than even a Took, alongside his friends, Mr Durin’s nephews, and it was of such mishaps that his father boasted so proudly.

“He is a fine, strapping boy, my Gimli,” Mr Glóin said, after one such story, and not for the first time that hour.

Bilbo smiled politely back, “It sounds to me as if you could not have been blessed with a finer son.”

“Indeed I could not,” beamed he in reply.

At that moment, Mr Ryson leaned forward, insinuating himself in their conversation with a flash of his usual thin smile and the air of one who rather considered himself a saviour. Bilbo however, found he enjoyed Mr Glóin’s tales, and he was no stranger to proud parents in Little Bagshot.  

“Mr Baggins, as you may recall, in August I expressed a wish to introduce you to my younger brother Ori?”

“Of course,” Bilbo smiled, “Is he in Town at present?”

“No, no, he resides with my elder brother, in a small village in Surrey, entirely feasible for us to be able to return within the day, should you wish to accompany me there. I was intending to go this Tuesday next.”

“I should be delighted to join you,” answered Bilbo graciously.

Their tea continued late into the afternoon, for their number was large enough that the conversation flowed easily and Bilbo found himself quite regretful that he had not made their acquaintance earlier, so very friendly as he was with them now. When he returned to Eärendil House, he vowed he should thank Sir Gandalf once more for the favour, indirect though it was, of sending Mr Fundinson and his friends in the direction of Little Bagshot.

Once he returned to St James’s Square, Bilbo found the baronet and the Duke from home, though both Lady Arwen and Lord Thorongil were sat quietly in the parlour; the lady occupied with an embroidery whilst the gentleman read a small volume of poetry. Bilbo situated himself at the writing desk in the corner and engaged himself in writing a letter to Primula. He had neglected to do so as of yet, as busy as he had been and he was certain he would receive some cross words from his cousin for disregarding her thusly.

He dipped the nip of his own favourite pen into to pot of dark ink and began, _’My dearest Prim,’_  the letter started, ‘ _As I write this, I am presently returned from visiting our dear friend Mr Urwin at his home in Gracechurch Street…’_


	7. wandering bark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again! Thank you all who've stuck with this through my recent rather sporadic updates. I plan to update regularly now summer is here, and in fact plan to have Chapter 8 (Mr Durin will be back!) with you in a week's time (it would be earlier, but it's my birthday and I'm off to London).  
> Anyway, thank you once again to everyone who reads/gives kudos/comments, and I hope you guys enjoy.

**_wandering bark_ **

 

“The company in Bath was splendid as always father,” drawled an unfamiliar voice. The smooth tone, and the deeper one of the Duke that followed after, both came through the door to the main parlour, just behind him. Bilbo gave pause a moment, eyes drifting to the sight of himself in the looking glass on the wall, windswept and pink-cheeked from his brisk morning walk.

Lindir, the butler, offered him a small, kindly expression.

“Lord Peredhel’s sons have arrived just this morning, sir,” he said. “Would you like me to announce you right away, or allow you a moment?”

Bilbo had just opened his mouth to request that perhaps he be permitted to at least remove his heavy overcoat before his introduction to Lord Elrond’s two sons. Lady Arwen had already assured him were the most spirited of individuals and that would at least give him chance to cathc his breath after his hour of exertion. Bilbo’s extensive family and acquaintance in Little Bagshot meant he was exposed to a great many spirited characters and found interactions with those of that ilk were best left for when one was not quite so tired following  a bout of early morning exercise. However, any response was prevented by the sound of a voice, in the same smooth tone as before, in the doorway to the parlour.

“I daresay I hear someone out in the hallway,” a man said, stepping out into the hall, but with his gaze still turned inward. Bilbo stilled on the spot, now at the bottom stair of the grand staircase.

The figure turned around quickly, barely sparing Lindir a glance before bright grey eyes locked into Bilbo and thin pale lips curled up  - whether it was into a smirk or a smile, Bilbo could not tell.

“Ah, you must be Mr Baggins,” he said, in a suave, lazy tone.

Bilbo inclined his head in acknowledgement. The man - presumably one of Lord Peredhel’s sons, though he was not sure which - swept across the hallway, pausing several feet from Bilbo, a light smile on his face, but his eyes were sharp, assessing, steel. Heat prickled on the back of his neck at the scrutiny and the gentleman straightened his shoulders, conscious of the height difference and internally lamenting the tendency of all those in the house except himself to be so very tall.

“An honour to make your acquaintance at last.”

The man bowed then, not a small tilt of the head as was customary, oh no, it was a great flourishing, dramatic thing and when he straightened, his lips were curled once again into the smile of one who was perpetually amused at the world and the people who inhabited it.

“I am Elrohir,” he said. “Come,” he continued, not exactly an order, but he proffered his right arm all the same, “I must introduce you to my elder brother.”

Bilbo almost let himself cast one last forlorn look at his dishevelled appearance in the mirror, before he halted the movement abruptly, not wishing to show any kind weakness, especially self-consciousness, in front of one as discerning as the young Lord seemed to be.

Allowing himself to be led into the room, Bilbo took a brief moment to study Lord Elrohir’s profile. He had the same long, elegant face of his father and sister, yet his skin was darker in colour, showing both his mother’s Portuguese heritage and his time spent abroad.

When he entered the room, Bilbo started as he noticed that Lord Peredhel’s elder son was in fact identical to his brother - something that Arwen had neglected to mention, though, now that he thought on it, she had described them as ‘very similar’ - and he regarded the gentleman at his younger brother’s side with that same amused smirk.

“I see Elrohir has found you,” commented the Duke wryly. “Allow me then, Mr Baggins, to introduce you to my eldest son, Elladan, Earl of Berkshire.”

Elladan, unlike his brother, merely inclined his head and smiled graciously.

“It is an honour,” he said, unknowingly mimicking his brother, “Father has spoken most highly of you already.”

When Bilbo looked to Lord Peredhel, the man’s lips quirked contentedly.

“I trust your walk was satisfactory?” the Duke asked instead of offering any sort of explanation.

“Perfectly so, Your Grace, I thank you.”

He merely received a flat look in response and it was then Bilbo remembered the Duke’s insistence the day before that Bilbo should call him by his Christian name.

“Come now, Mr Baggins,” he had said, “You are my guest, and I think we are friends enough now that we should dispense with such formalities.”

Before he could protest, Lord Elrond had called forth Lindir to relieve Bilbo of his heavy greatcoat and see to it that they were brought some tea.

Bilbo lowered himself onto the small sofa he had come to favour, joined soon by Elrohir, despite there being an empty chair on the other side of the parlour. Straightaway, Elladan pulled his father into a continued discussion of various goings on in society that he had unearthed in Bath.

“So, Mr Baggins,” began Elrohir politely, “You must tell me of society in Gloucestershire. I am far too familiar with city life for my own comfort.”

The Lord’s expression was one of innocent curiosity, but Bilbo, finding his manners far too reminiscent of his Tookish cousins, studied him for a moment, searching his face for any signs of subterfuge. Finding none, he returned the polite smile and said,

“Oh not nearly so varied as it is here, my cousin and I, we dine with some four and twenty families.”

“That does not so sound so very unvaried to me. And the familiarity must be pleasant.”

Bilbo chuckled, “Indeed, of nearly all of my acquaintances there, I have known them all my life. Any new acquaintances are treated with great interest and suspicion, all at once. My dear friend Fundinson has lived there some four months now and still he remains a central topic of the town gossips.”

Elrohir grinned, “You are not perhaps talking of the brother of Colonel Fundinson? I heard he had moved to the country.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, “You are acquainted with the Colonel?”

“Indeed I am,” replied he, sounding increasingly amused, “We are not so much friends for he declares me the most horrendous cad each time we meet, but if is always said with such affability, I cannot help but doubt his sincerity.”

Bilbo snorted, “Have you ever met his fiancé?”

“Mr Ryson?” Bilbo nodded and Elrohir shrugged his shoulder. “Sadly I have not had the pleasure. Why do you ask?”

Bilbo hummed innocently, “No reason, I just have the strangest feeling you might get along.”

Since they had breakfasted late that morn, it had been decided to forgo luncheon and thus it was that the conversations in the parlour continued, unhurried and undisturbed, save for the arrival of the tea, until Lindir entered, a crisp white letter on the gleaming tray he carried.

“A letter for you, Mr Baggins,” he said, offering it to him.

Bilbo took it with a smile, “I suppose this shall be from Primula, though she has written back awfully quickly. Thank you Lindir.”

When he glanced down at the direction on the paper, however, he found the script to be an unfamiliar one, a great sweeping cursive, rather different from Primula’s own neat, controlled hand.

“If you will excuse me gentlemen,” he addressed to the room at large, “I shall be in the library.”

Lord Elrond smiled at him kindly, “Take your time, Bilbo, I was just about to order some more tea, would you like me to have some sent to you?”

“I am quite alright for now, thank you.”

So much sooner than he had settled upon one in the parlour, Bilbo had chosen a favourite chair in Eärendil House’s grand library the very first moment he had entered; a cushy, velvet armchair, deep, racing green in colour that strongly resembled the seat his grandmother always sat in in the western drawing room at Tuckborough. The chair in the library was positioned near the rightmost of the sweeping arch windows, providing ample light by which he could read the letter.

 _‘My Dear Master Baggins,’_ it read, _‘I trust this letter finds you in good health and that the same can be said of your family in Little Bagshot._

_‘My purpose in writing to you is to apologise; both for my most abrupt departure in September and my delay in writing to you with the explanation I feel you are due._

_‘The matter which drew me away was one of a most serious matter, concerning the health of a very dear friend. You will, I hope, remember my mention of my younger brother Frerin. Before duty called him to the East, he was, for a time, in the service of His Majesty’s Navy and fought most fiercely in the great victory at Trafalgar. During the battle, my brother served under the captaincy of Bifur Urwin, the elder cousin of Messrs Urwin and the gentleman to whom we owe my brother’s life. As a result of his injuries sustained in battle, the Captain is sadly now unable to live unassisted. At present, he lives at Erebor Hall, under the care of a nurse._

_‘Unfortunately, he recently contracted a serious case of the Boulogne sour throat and though he has almost made a full recovery and is - I assure you - out of danger, there was a brief period during which we did fear the worst._

_‘Rest assured, now he is well again, I am at my leisure to pursue my business in London and shall be there midway through the coming week. I hope I can take the liberty of calling on you, Thursday next at four o’clock? I will be staying at the residence of my cousin, Lord Ferrnock, at 34 Cavendish Square. Should you send your reply there, I will be in receipt of it upon my arrival in London on Wednesday._

_Yours, Thorin Durin’_

Bilbo sat back, staring unseeingly at the flowing script of the letter which he clutched in his hand. Whilst Mr Urwin had made passing reference to his cousin in the navy, he had no idea as to the true extent of the man’s acquaintance with the Durin family, or indeed that the man was a hero, in the truest sense of the word. It was no wonder that Durin had been quite so agitated when he came to take his leave of Bilbo, or indeed had taken so long to write. Truthfully though, Bilbo had largely forgotten Durin’s promise to write and in the brief moments when the thought had crossed his mind, well he supposed the gentleman had forgotten; after all, Bilbo, though his friend, did not have all that great a claim upon his thoughts - indeed not! With a mournful glance towards the writing desk, far across the library, Bilbo set about composing  a reply in his head, having no desire to move from his comfortable seat in the armchair.

He would need to assure Durin that there was of course no need for him to apologise, and he would express his sympathies at hearing of Captain Urwin’s illness and his subsequent delight at the recovery. Then, he would most graciously accept Mr Durin’s offer to call on him.

Bilbo did not realise quite how long he had been sitting in the library until Lindir appeared at the door, looking apologetic for disturbing Bilbo’s solitude. The gentleman gave the butler a reassuring smile, which prompted the man to step further into the room.

“Lord Peredhel thought you might like to know that you have around an hour until the dinner bell, Mr Baggins.”

“Thank you.”

Once Lindir had left, Bilbo moved swiftly to the writing desk, hoping he would have time to set all the words of his letter to paper before he had to go change for dinner.

* * *

 Though he had already enjoyed a great many parties and gatherings during his brief time in London, Bilbo was yet to experience an honest to goodness ball, a fact which was to be rectified that weekend with an assembly, an event the Duke had very kindly insisted on outfitting him for. Whilst residents of Little Bagshot keenly kept to their manners, in London, customs regarding dress code were much more strictly observed. It was not that his own attire was unsuitable, per se, merely that, as Gandalf insinuated, its style was such that it would set him apart as being from the country. The last thing Bilbo wished for, was to draw attention to himself in such a manner in Town for it may bring embarrassment upon his host, and Elrond was most generous that Bilbo would hate to inconvenience in any way.

As such, though he did not draw any discerning eyes at the assembly, Bilbo did feel a little uncomfortable in the stiff, unfamiliar clothes and so skirted around the edges of the throng of ladies and gentlemen, keeping an eye out for Elrohir, by whom he had been coerced into dancing the first. Bilbo was not certain that the lord would be able to find him in time - especially since his black frock coat and short stature hardly made him easily distinguishable amongst the many people there.

Barely had Bilbo a chance for such thoughts to grasp hold however, when Elrohir sidled up alongside him, a willowy, pale gentleman strolling in his wake. He was the kind of gentleman who exuded class and superiority in rich, lazy waves and he joined Bilbo and the young Lord, paying more heed to the dark wine he swirled in a crystal goblet than to either of them.

“Mr Baggins,” said Elrohir, “Before we dance, you must allow me to introduce an old friend.” This, Bilbo noted, was said with even less sincerity than usual. In all likelihood this fellow was one whom Elrohir had known for too long, and too intimately to be considered a mere acquaintance, yet was not regarded all that favourably, in the usual manner of friends. “Baggins, this is Thranduil Greene, the Duke of Somerset. Your Grace, may I present Mr Bilbo Baggins, an honoured guest at Eärendil.”

In response to Bilbo’s polite inclination of the head, the Duke merely smirked, flicking his gaze from the deep red of his claret to run it up and down Bilbo’s frame, assessing.

“Ahh yes,” he drawled, “The gentleman from Gloucestershire. An honour, I’m sure.”

“Likewise,” Bilbo replied a little tersely. He could well understand Mr Ryson’s earlier remark of the man being well-pleased with himself - indeed even Lobelia Bracegirdle would take exception to such a self-congratulatory manner.

At that moment, they were saved from any further conversation as the band struck up the first notes to begin a quadrille, and Elrohir, who had already secured the first dance with Bilbo, excused them both from the Duke’s company as they moved towards were the other dancers had gathered on the floor.

“You must forgive Somerset,” Elrohir muttered in Bilbo’s ear, “His supercilious manner is worse at present for he feels the need to defend himself from the vicious gossip.”

Bilbo sent him an enquiring look, but they were forced to separate to step into formation.

“I believe he is engaged at present,” continued the young Lord Peredhel as the dance drew them close. “And the gentleman in question is in fact not a gentleman at all, for he has a profession.”

“Indeed?” Bilbo was certain his face was the picture of skepticism at that moment, so sure he was that such a condescending noble could not hold affections for one quite so far below his station.

“Most certainly - though the man is descended from the last Baron Dale, the family is quite destitute, which is why he works in the first place.”

They moved away from each other again, and Bilbo took a moment to think on this as he went through familiar steps. He had heard of the Baron Dale - many had - it was oft held up as a cautionary tale of the folly of excess. The last Baron, Girion Bowman, had paid dearly for the indulgences of his forebears and had been forced to sell the family’s estate and title yet still he had died an indebted man. The Duke’s behaviour however, if his betrothed was indeed as Elrohir described, would suggest some level of shame on his part.

“Father tells me he waits until he is married to bring his husband into society to protect him,” Bilbo’s dance partner added, as if reading Bilbo’s very thoughts, “I think he believes as husband to a Duke the man will be spared some of the ridicule.”

“One would think a man as worldly as Somerset would not be quite so naive when it comes to the virtue of society,” Bilbo commented wryly, “Still, I suppose his intentions are admirable.”

“Yes, and I would say many of us are somewhat foolhardy when love enters unto the stage.” The statement was said with a bitter twinge to the young Lord’s normally, smooth, upbeat tone and Elrohir ducked away from Bilbo, a little early than the dance dictated.

Bilbo pondered that for a moment, what he referred to - did Elrohir perhaps harbour unrequited affections for some lady or gentleman? Though they had formed a fast friendship in the few days Lord Peredhel’s sons had come into residence at Eärendil House, Bilbo realised then just how little he knew of his friend, and indeed how little he knew of the man’s acquaintance outside of the small circle Bilbo had been exposed to thus far in London. In all likelihood, Elrohir’s heart was held by some famed society beauty in Bath.

As the dance came to an end, Elrohir led Bilbo back through to where their small party had gathered, though now they found only Gandalf and an unfamiliar gentleman with a riot of unruly red hair.

“Bilbo!” Gandalf greeted cheerfully. With a smile, Elrohir left Bilbo with the other two gentlemen and excused himself to go in search of his brother.

“You must allow me to introduce my friend here,” the baronet addressed his companion, “This is Mr Bilbo Baggins, of Little Bagshot, Bilbo this is Dáin Durin, the Baron Ferrnock and the cousin of your friend Durin.”

The Baron grinned. “Mr Baggins!” he enthused, “It is an honour to meet you at last! I have heard much about you from my dear old cousin.”

“Likewise, My Lord,” Bilbo smiled, “And I can only hope it has all been praise.”

“There’ll been none of that ‘my Lord’ business laddie,” admonished Lord Durin affably, “And of course it has all been praise. A fine gentleman such as yourself could incur no such thing as insult I’m sure!”

“You would be surprised,” replied Bilbo sardonically, “Your cousin for one succeeded within mere moments of having been introduced.”

The Baron laughed, a great booming sound that drew several heads but seemed to to deter him. Gandalf spared a chuckle too, and with a mournful glance down at his empty goblet, he told them he would go in search of more wine, to return momentarily.

“Now this I must hear,” Durin declared, “For Urwin told me, and this he got second-hand from Fundinson, that his first night in Little Bagshot, Thorin did not dance a single dance. Surely this cannot be true!”

“I am afraid it is,” said Bilbo with feigned regret, “Durin told me himself, he was of an awfully ill humour that day, and so, instead of engaging in the merriment, elected instead to stay brooding in the corner.” The Baron snorted at this. “And when Fundinson tried to encourage him to dance,” Bilbo continued, “Pointing out me since I was nearby, he not only outright refused, but called me a farmer.”

Lord Ferrnock guffawed loudly, “Shame on my cousin! Insulting a fellow such as yourself! It has always amused me how ill he recommends himself to strangers, yet upon closer acquaintance, I know him to be so very kind,” Lord Durin paused at the moment, a satisfied grin appearing on his lips as he noted Bilbo nodding in agreement as to his observation on his cousin. Bilbo could not fault such a description, having since been exposed to that very same warm side of Thorin Durin that the gentleman’s cousin spoke of.

“But then again,” he added, “He always did manage to have the most tremendous sulks when we were young, you know. Thorin absolutely hated Geography lessons and would go to great lengths to avoid them. He disliked the fact that Frerin and I, being his juniors, were so much better at maps than he. No sense of direction, I tell you - he once got lost in the grounds of Ferrnock, my home, and a place he has visited since a child.”

Bilbo chuckled, then smiled indulgently, “Now this is a tale, I should like to hear.”

“But of course,” answered Dáin, “First, we must go find some punch, for what is a tale without proper lubricant?”

The Baron quickly cemented himself as some of the wittiest and most pleasant company Bilbo had even been introduced to. He never allowed the conversation to grow stilted and instead it was filled with many humorous and lighthearted observations that meant the evening passed most agreeably. His wife Elizabeth was similarly amiable and by the time he had taken his leave of their company an hour later, Bilbo had an invitation to tea at Cavendish Square at his earliest convenience and an open invite to dinner should he ever find himself in Yorkshire.

When he returned home in the early hours of the morning, Bilbo collapsed into a chair in the parlour, taking the nightcap proffered by Lindir with a welcome smile, his legs feeling each step of the many dances he had partaken in and his mind replaying various parts of each of the warm conversations. He could scarcely believe that just a week of his time in London remained, for though the thought of Bag-End beckoned, he should quite like to remain in Town a while longer.


End file.
